A poem from Sanghvi’s fifth book, Cerulean.
Released: March 13, 2020.
Sometimes, I try on these words like jeans. I squeeze into them, or else squish them into my small, flat palms, as if it is they who will wear me instead.
Alas! They almost never seem to fit, nor do they ever quite seem to fit me back.
Could it be that I am actually meant to be content, and I am merely too stubborn to fulfill my own destiny?
That would explain the hollowness, the weight of this void that smashes against my ribs, ramming and jamming them into the channels of my lungs so that what little oxygen I still [potentially] possess gets luxuriously lodged within my sternum, partial stoicism at its absolute finest.
Perhaps I am content now, just as I am a Size 8 in women’s [stretch] jeans. Why, then, can I not seem to encounter ease or abode in either?
Does everyone else know why I am the way I am? Can anyone explain it? Will someone so kindly scrutinize, analyze, and detail the ins and outs of this particular “why” for me?
I stuff my harrowed heart, this anomalous organ brimming with aching, apprehensive, and sorrowful sentiments, as well as my wide, wary hips, into yet another pair of jeans that cannot quite contain me, them, or any actual prevailing forms of joy. It is in this, and this alone, that I realize how poetry is denim to me: the fit is strange, but at least it offers structure, sensation, softness, and [some] serenity in these trying times when I would otherwise be altogether