The Hospital Rainbow

Even if her heart, the kidneys.
Even if the kidneys, a vegetable.
Not plant you see. Vegetable.
A bitter gourd glued to a machine.

Dad, when he learnt, fainted
on the ramp. For an eternity I ran
between his ECG room and Ma’s
ICU, faced with the prospect

of two funerals. I ran with three
stents in my heart and a few smokes
in my pocket. Unbeknownst to me,
the weather scheduled a rainbow

from Apollo’s rooftop. We waited
in the motel, and no, I couldn’t lay
off the Vodka. I stretched on
the bed, barely closed my eyes

before seeing it with my eyes:
The flatline, the nurses’ mechanical
unplugging, the laminated red
Ganesha still behind her head.

I lifted her arm, gently placing
it down. I lifted her gown
and for the first time in my
remembrance, saw her breasts—

smothered in ICU light.
I didn’t touch or kiss them.
My grief didn’t compromise her dignity.
So I knelt by her right, and sobbed

while my aunt dragged me into
the brutal silence outside—for I was
killing the sick with my bawls.
The attendant stopped me from

seeing her again: they were
packing her. (How many postal stamps
does a corpse need to go
from the deathbed to the mortuary?)

I was soon at a tea-stall, inhaling
that godawful greeting card
rainbow— will always wonder
what was written inside.