Distraction

We’re huddled at the junction 
     of five long, dusty paths:

 a swollen, hammering sun;
     withered wheat and grass.

As weary families near,
     a bald man points and screams:

Look at how they pray–
     it’s their fault, can’t you see?

Next morning, when I ask, 
     you say: It’s obvious– 

That was just Amit Shah
     trying to distract us.

That night, as our fan rattles
     we sweat into the sheets;

there’s thunder in the distance–
     we pray for rain and sleep.