In Madurai,city of temples and poets,who sang of cities and temples,every summera river dries to a tricklein the sand,baring the sand ribs,straw and women's hairclogging the watergatesat the rusty barsunder the bridges with patchesof repair all over themthe wet stones glistening like sleepycrocodiles, the dry onesshaven water-buffaloes lounging in the
The poets only sang of the floods.
He was there for a daywhen they had the floods.
People everywhere talkedof the inches rising,of the precise number of cobbled stepsrun over by the water, risingon the bathing places,and the way it carried off three village houses,one pregnant womanand a couple of cowsnamed Gopi and Brinda as usual.
The new poets still quotedthe old poets, but no one spokein verseof the pregnant womandrowned, with perhaps twins in her,kicking at blank wallseven before birth.
He said:the river has water enoughto be poeticabout only once a yearand thenit carries awayin the first half-hourthree village houses,a couple of cowsnamed Gopi and Brindaand one pregnant womanexpecting identical twinswith no moles on their bodies,with different coloured diapersto tell them apart.
