as the little girl came with fresh morning milk
as we ate curried peas in the dawn
in the dark, squatting,
holding a long stick wound with cotton
face lit by burnt butter
on the roof squinting back at the himalayas, down at rusting rebar
how garbage is not piled in the streets, lit on fire
no shopkeeper holding a rat by it’s tail, beating it against the ground
we don’t see the fingernail-ed stubbed hands of lepers
no little girl, body missing below the belly
how we don’t have bandhs, don’t light tires on fire in the middle of streets to get reparations for one’s child murdered by the Young Communist League
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