Our Marigold
I was in a golden attire
you, an invisible muslin cloak
I was there, slipping into a flower
you, poised between its folds
Speaking of marigold, and
drops of milk stuck
on its copper red petals
Speaking of sarees hosting
opulent colors, and
lamps holding managed fire
There it was
our season — of impatience
our day — rolling out of control
our golden night — reduced to reflections
there it were — lives awkwardly touching each other
The glass lamps fell
The fresh grass caught fire
The invisible cloak went up in flames —
Then, a golden light, burnt bright
in our fallen marigold
Mum’s Yellow Gown
She had a yellow gown
that grew holes for roses
It turned mustard, then gray
She walked to the grocery store
in her gown
bought bread on discount
and thought ‘butter, some other day
The day my child would
buy me another yellow
just like this, but newʼ
All her dead children in a basket
All her dead dreams in her frizzled hair
All her dead husbands under the bed
All her unborn yellows in shops, unknown
Her blue slippers, hardly any sole
Her folded skin, hardly any stories to tell
Her yellow gown, barely keeping her in
Her yellow teeth, barely held in her gums
She never took trains, my mum
It was for oneʼs with weak legs
— oneʼs who couldnʼt walk
She never ate in a big plate, my mum
It was for those who couldnʼt pile up leftovers
— eat it all at once
My mother, she had cobwebs in her soul
She had puffy warts, in clusters
where her desires were trapped
She had children and husbands alright
but cut from the same see-through cloth
All of them, were certain she could live
(happily) in her yellow gown, that needed
no mending. Cloth
runs longer than a human life after-all
Of course, she liked bread with no butter
And trains were for people who couldnʼt walk
Dreams arenʼt for people who
have to tire their legs so much — are they, my dear?
Her single pillow, with a yellow pillow case
on its cover, cross-stitched a tiny parakeet
That is how she flew
in her yellow feathers, at the end