By Vikram Iyer
Coughing yellow phlegm
out. I am sick.
Enough for the hospital?—No.
Enough to be left alone.
Congealed. Sooty. (I am in India
after all). Slimy. Slick.
Like the coconut oil
rubbed onto my unwilling head
once upon a time.
Yellow. Like the May noon sun
when the backyard was bigger
and the trees taller.
When I knew no soot.
Phlegm—congealed.
I had slept, it solidified.
Hardened my throat and hoarsened
my voice.
I am always angry now.
Enough to be left alone.
I cough some more
my phlegm is wan now
weaker, whiter.
I pale to my phlegm,
I am not congealed at all.
My phlegm is stuck to my
handkerchief
until I wash it
many days later—
unlike my clothes
hanging in the
yellow noon sun
in the backyard.