Bengal India, Age 11

You squat barefoot
waiting for your little
brother to load slabs of clay
on top of the
rag on his head,
stumbling under the weight
as he brings them over.
You roll the clay in the dust,
fit it in your brick mold,
pound it and, skillfully
cutting the excess off,
knock the brick
out to sun bake before
it’s fired in the kiln,
whose smokestack rises.
And you no longer
notice the foul smell
of the smoke you breathe
fifteen hours of every day.
You knock another brick
among the countless others,
that spread out from you
like a patio but with no
comforts of the home you left
two years ago when your parents
took a five dollar loan
they couldn’t repay.