Unremember — Poems by Sanjeevani Sakshi

Unremember the prick of my father's beard when he would lift me in his arms at four,
supermarket tours and heart-shaped balloons.
the face of a friend I lost along the way,
the narrow lanes and Neem trees that adorned the house I left behind,
the pink walls, mosaic tiled floors, a perennial festivity.
Unremember the airy corridors of my high school,
ancient ceiling fans and vandalised desks and the order, the boundaries, my best friend’s ant bite allergy.
Unremember my bereaved ex-boyfriend’s peculiar timbre,
teenage foolishery, well-intentioned naivety, fiercely etched hearts, a sense of inevitable doom.

Unremember then, myself—
I am everything I remember,
What a sad thing, to be myself,
to be the one who remembers.

Iridescent waves of survival instinct.

Morose brick walls or whatever it is our bodies are made of,
Irksome twists and turns of time- by a few minutes, a few hours, until days dissolve into years.
Sober eyes and sombre lies that never permeated my drunken oath to the maladies,
Slaughterhouses of affection, hanging corpses rotting unchosen. Give me pain if nothing else!

Your fears and mine- together make a couple more disastrous than you and I,
Outsiders ogling at us through looking glass,
Unconditionally doomed by lines we drew on each other’s palms with permanent marker.

I left behind a sunflower in Darjeeling,
my friend got it for me
for a hundred and twenty rupees.
Wrapped in transparent plastic,
a perfect cone, the brilliant flower within-
yellow. Brown-
scent of a whole town.

I had to leave it behind,
in that homestay
in a used soft drink bottle with some water.
But I plucked away a petal
and secured it in my coat pocket-
carried it all the way back home,
kept between pages of my favourite book.

I am an entanglement of unending string that ties itself to
wherever I go, whatever I touch, whomever I love-
all I am- radiating rays of a golden thread,
being pulled into all directions at once-
an unstable equilibrium of longing.

I am a thief of memory,
stealing, calling them souvenirs-
a hoarder of hope.
The closest I ever get
to touching a memory-
feel it in my shaking hands
an overwhelming ocean of remembrance,
the embrace of resignation,
the jaundiced death of the sunflower I left behind-
There's only so much vitality in this world,

Grieve a thousand deaths,
list all that I love and had to leave behind
in alphabetical order;
find a home at the airport departure.

Garlic-
such culinary fondness.
Bulbs of ceramic covered in tender fascia-
I peel them away standing in my poorly lit kitchen,
silence. My growing nail hurting the fragile thing,
something green protrudes from its tip-
wishful germination,
painful rumination.
My knife- a tool, a weapon.
Individual cloves on the cutting board
chopped into irregular minuscule bits,
thinking about it- days gone, weeks to come,
home alone, certain failures to outrun.
The blade punctures my thumb-
so scarlet, blood runs loose
into the minced garlic, then the creases of the wooden cutting board,
a river unstoppable.
My own blood longs to leave my body-
I understand, I do. In a saute pan now-
fresh garlic. Butter sizzle. Golden, then brown.
Consumes the kitchen with an olfactory trance,
the bleeding stops,
hot butter pops onto my skin — transient intense heat.
I add sliced button mushrooms,
watch it shrink, like a shy new student in middle school.
Salt. Cautious sprinkle into the pan-
then black pepper, such an indomitable spirit.
Watch the mushrooms shrink a little more,
they must feel small as I do sometimes.
I turn the heat off,
eat it off the pan- call it a day, and lay in bed.

Someone I used to love once told me that we need people
and it is alright;
I need to feel what I feel and not run away,
for the only thing I outrun is myself.
This monosyllabic word, a haunting thing really.
When I was little, one night in a puddle of tears I promised myself
I would never need anyone. Told myself-
some people are meant to be alone,
there's nothing I couldn't do on my own,
one day I would go so far away from this place supposed to be home
that I’d escape that curse written in stone.
A child needs her mother,
as I need a bit of Prozac,
I also need my mother-
mild coffee that my grandmother brews.
I need my friends as we laugh,
cry,
and dance to a song we all despise.
I need the sun, or I get too sad.
I need love, who doesn't?
I need to feel.
I need you, blue orchids, my fourth grade math teacher, mint chocolate chip ice-cream, my Spotify playlist, that friend I made online seven years ago, a mountain retreat, and blueberry cheesecake.

When someone asks me
How do you write a poem?
I never know what to tell them-
because I do not know the answer.
A poem finds me,
travels a distance to reach my pen.
I summon a poem
like a desperate clairvoyant.
Over my fresh wound
it lingers like a microscopic pathogen-
into my bloodstream it goes;
I am infected,
symptoms- an irresistible desire to write;
sometimes the bludgeon of ink on parchment paper,
often the click of my laptop keyboard.
The episode passes,
reading the words- I know all my diagnoses.

When I am sad, happy, angry, disappointed, lost-
I know another purchase would attain me salvation.
That coat in red for Pinterest borrowed antics,
as long as it looks good.
In my body is an ongoing Aesthetic movement,
my eyes are no longer mine- but a beauty pageant contest critic’s.
That lipstick in soft wine, or a bottle of wine-
anything for a good time.
Never ends, the endeavours of a consumer-
not at the overpriced heels I can only wear to a fine dine
after a twenty-minute drive,
so I must get a pair of running shoes.
Break my heart, I will buy another-
Tear me apart, I will procure a better body-
one with a symmetrical face and slim belly,
Abandon me, I will acquire another you.
Once I get my hands on that YSL perfume,
I can finally sleep easy,
which reminds me, I should get a satin pillowcase.

When I was a child
I did not know the spelling of ‘enough’,
I thought there must be an ‘f’ somewhere-
hiding, as I was- in the garage where an old dusty car stood
back when we used to play hide-and-seek.
Is there not a part of you that wishes to be found
even if it means you lose?
When I was a child,
I loved everything- the little rat wreaking havoc in our apartment,
the gulmohar tree near the school,
my mom, my friends, that TV character, the North Star,
the dress with roses I convulsed on the mall floor for,
myself.
I ran out of ‘I love you’s screaming it out in that loveless universe.
When I was a child, I missed all that was lost
LOUDLY.
I missed the little rat in my apartment who had died,
I missed my cousin who had a train to catch-
and she knew for I had cried for an hour before
only to get distracted by a tub of ice cream,
the sugar induced slumber that followed.
When I was a child,
I knew all the answers, except 13×9.
Now I am an anxious adult who knows calculus.