Post Partum

I tell people I have the yellows. 

Gelatinous shade of Omega 3 capsules 
with their fish oil aftertaste and films 
about angry White men in Bangladesh, 
placid shade of egg salad 
left out long after the picnic is done, 
oppressive shade of summer joy 
dulled by the blade of thirst. 
Colour of get what you want but not what you need, 
Van Gogh’s stars, bile and birdseed,
sedate heart of chamomile, the chaff of wheat,
smile-shaped scar showing its betadine teeth.
Best paired with May’s gulmohars, 
bleeding into sky, staining streets, 
koyals whistling themselves to sludge-thick sleep. 
I tell people love is easy. It’s the way the body 
will leaven and rise and crack to keep love fed
that really makes you weep. 

Happy tears?  people ask. So happy.
I tell them my gratitude is like the sun. 
In turns it ripens, in turns it spoils.