They say disasters come in threes

But it seems they are coming in torrents,

Terrible and frightening dispersed with sad and uncomfortable.

Puddles reflect things you can’t understand

Clouds heavy with apprehension

My heart aches, my head throbs, my legs feel like logs

Dragged from the fire still smoldering.

Gloomy dreams followed by shrill alarm clocks

Intolerable restrictions on a freedom I don’t know if I want

And every conversation turns round and round

The cold grey core of a cyclone that keeps bringing rain.

Dhaka 2016