Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

Why, if it isn’t Gandhi,  

returned as a house gecko, 

talkative, still slender, 

motionless on the wainscotting. 

His chirp is plummy British banter. 

“Dear boy, have a dekko, 

an eye for an eye makes  

the whole world blind. 

Or so you’ll find. Mind, 

one hopes not!” 

(And so on and so forth.) 

All I say to him is, What? 

I don’t mean to be rude 

but you left us no food. 

The carving knife you used  

like some tiny god 

still drips blood  

on the old floorboard. 

My extended hopeless family  

sat down for dinner in India 

and got up in Pakistan. 

You turned our house into a granary 

the army used for bribes 

to win over the strongest tribes. 

Seventy-five is three score and ten 

years. Give or take five. Years. 

You expect things to change, but what has? 

Well, we pray to screens. 

And they’re still at it, your assassins, 

in the name of love and fame. 

A people divided by circumcision. 

Or not. Veils or not. Meat or not. 

You expect things to change the same, 

Mr. Gecko, Mr. Forget-me-not, 

Mr. Greatsoul. 

You’re here and you’re not.