Poem for Bhopal

Floating on the midnight breeze.  

No song.

No star.

No knock on the door. 


Pink bubbles, 

twisted braids, 

and lips as blue as Keats’. 

India’s Ophelia.  No, not Ophelia. 


Waiting for justice.


Iago feasts on flowers.  He sails to New Amsterdam

in a golf cart, wearing aged spots

and bright green trousers. 


Divine spirits beckon her unsullied soul:

‘Fly across the Gulf of Aden.  Fly

over the Atlantic. 

To fire and smoke, and seeping despair.  

The sea is turning black.’


Scales and swords for fifteen thousand dark-haired lives

and generations in ruin.




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