Couture III: Anthimeria

Couture III: Anthimeria

On our way there, there wasn’t much to see.
The sea bid farewell to the bow
but the sea is, and was then, feminine,
and so judged us as what is called the unyielding matron

She showed us
Vinyl rotting, melting to will
Fakri’s famine curtsying to the mist of vaseline
Premier shondesh stuffed into mouths
Or into homes in takeout containers
Flyovers splintering into blockades
Into ignitions at starting pistol
And sparkling water at checkered flag

We are entertained.
And wake up stranded in low tide.

Feet gassed in mud
Feuding with the cataract of the tube well,
Dodging cow dung,
An expedition of tents to curry amends
For we have sinned
And Fridays were not enough.
Only the Earth forgives:

Conifers unfurl like corollas
In panorama;
Soft shell crabs are admired,
And fade pink in the pot;
Turtles lay eggs at midnights
Marshalled by our flashlights;
Combing the stretch of beach
Is religious,
Exoskeletons for the wife to hang around her neck.

This milad is interrupted,
Tourists are also journalists
In the south.

Villagers run errands on pocket change
And with the kids watching,
We burn ourselves on the twenty second loosie:
Don’t they go to school?

And they tell you about the textbooks and the teachers and the students and the four dogs on the island and the soil that is estranged family and the dialect, the dialect, the unsent wedding invitation like you are the district commissioner.
And you do not correct them.

But they were not ready.

Life, and hope better life.

I know how you feel.
But the way you feel about it will not create jobs.


Couture II: Annexation

Couture II: Annexation

*Rajar Matt, Bandarban*

From the Green room.
Enter stage right.
The Bohmong King folds onto his throne:
Kerchief coronating kingdom
The silk melts,
Dripping gold down
The proscenium arch
Mummifying the dagger at his waist.

The entourage:
In military camo.
In Mujib coat.
In suit tailored for retirement.
They, for this day, entertain the daughter as head of household.

Banner hangs over,
Photo-shopped by zero hour,
The scripts are hierarchy.
The Bengali:
In defeated anorexia,
The matra marshaling legion in riot gear.
The Rest:
Escape distinction.
By the others’ choice.
Trickle down.
The Marma;
The Chakma;
The Matrilineal;
The Indigenous;
The Tribe.

We are gathered here today
For the Punnyah

The circle of the King
Are heirs to khazana,
Their palmar creases
Dug like moats of custom
Where written laws wither.

*Bain Weaving*

The warp strung to a post,
Strapped to her back.
She pulls.
The spine tightens,
Excuses the loom stand,
At ease again.
Beater nurses the weft into position.

The time signature flaunts
Not the testosterone of the adda,
The awe and collapse of the bazaar that
Deals in counterfeit.

The fabric resists craft
And for this reason is beloved by the tourist,
Mounted on Chander Gari,
Who yawns chasms at the unfinished shawl.
Draping it around her shoulders
Assigning it her sweat,
Braiding it mute.