Three Poems

Drop Dead, Bakhtai

Die, Bakhtai, so you can go home, set yourself free.
I know you don't like this game of wars. You think
the stoning would mess up your clothes
and make your little feet dirty; but look at me:
I am still walking, caked in mud and straw,
a small buddha, after the giant ones the Taliban blew up.
You see, the buddhas' graves are still standing,
hollow with the shadow of their shape.
I think they went down in shame for all the sticks,
the burnt kites, the paper planes.
Drop your notebook and fall under the winnowed wheat
next time they crack a shot. Let yourself go
flat dead on the threshing floor. This is a storm of chaff,
it's quick and over with all in an eyeshut,
like the nut that fell on the man's head when he sat under the tree.
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