If you think to be alone is to walk about in the rooms of
your house and hear the neighbours dying on their
terraces and see the evening busily gathering
You will hear it waking to the roar of a ceiling fan,
in the rustling of dry palm leaves, in pebbles pouring
from a lorry onto the dusty street. The
Wandering among twisted streets on long dry afternoons,
in those shrieking bazaars that are a conspiracy whispered
through the broken teeth of pavements, I am made
homeless by distance. I
My friends from the vast city drive to a dirty town at the
base of a hill on a weekend at the fag end of summer.
Everything is distance, the
A short story
For two hours, the man did not so much as pause. His voice did not crack, his forehead did not crease; nor was there a hint of
The kitchen is a laboratory, a prison,
an anti-thesis of dream. It is colour and pain:
lime juice on wounds and hard black nouns
hiding like poisonous ants beneath
I walk in my mother's clothes on the street,
feel the cool sweat wider my arms soak her blouse
timidly: shy, damp flowers of my sweat on her
The man who runs the sports goods store
that also sells old unopened books and
board games in faded boxes, sits with his
tattooed arms folded in the sun.
One day in June, the Toronto Globe and Mail carried a news photograph showing a man, naked to the waist, surrounded by police officers. The man´s hands are handcuffed
a short story
Auntie is the best mother she can be under the circumstances; ten-year-old Gopal remembers no other. But her heart is heavy, he is too much
