Rain
Monsoon rain, drumming on the roof.
What defense against a watery siege?
The first invasion, a sudden gush,
under the door exploratory fingers feel
stealthily across the mosaic floor.
Long lizard tongues of froth and mud
lick hungrily up the hall.
My daughters stand marooned, defensive,
buckets and spades on battle call.
The fridge succumbs, stuttering to a halt.
Saucepans, buckets brooms, a defeated army,
surrender as they float routed to the door.
In the road a muddy river flows past,
carrying the city’s guts:
dead dogs, plastic buckets, sodden sofas,
an island of water hyacinth, leaves and twigs
bearing the local rubbish tip.
Refugees, on a nearby roof,
yell warnings of green water snakes.
I give the order to evacuate,
wading waist high, while the girls swim,
through the flooded flat.
From the roof we survey the city:
An eastern Venice
sinking into darkness
as the sun sets.
Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK. Her work has appeared in anthologies and literary magazines across more than 25 countries and on every continent except Antarctica. She has taught English in India, Tanzania, and the UK. Currently working on a poetry collection, she has received nominations for Best of the Net, the Pushcart Prize, and the Dwarf Stars Award.