Monologue for the Embalmer
A cento with lines from Aimee Nezhukumatathil and Sun Yung Shin
I will read your fortune from a bowl of cheese.
Draw first just register the number of shards
now prayer & salt : what a handsome contagion.
This sign reminds you to look for moon-glow on
every sea grape because just when you least expect it,
one day you will receive a call & the howl you make
will leak out inky like a shot glass of hot octopus panic.
Put your name in a hat or a volcano. Notice my halo &
how my hair tentacles over? Our beauty is mostly protein.
We were born on the days of peaches splitting like chambers
of a lock, enemies in the black sky. We are the girls who went
away, who ate pebbles & stopped talking as the lone window
bloomed snow & more snow. Now we need armies of alphabets
to keep us warm in a world of strange deliveries. One day, I was
offered an advance cremation. Why wait, I thought. After all I
lost the only picture of me taken by the boy I loved. I fever for
the slip of straps down my shoulder. If I could, I would teach you
how to die away from this green world & blow your blood into
glass poppies ; the last floriographer. Could you please die before
me so I may sew words & stems all through your body, touching
your skin like it might be paper? A poet can make the sun jealous.
The Gospel of Edie Beale Bouvier
Grey Gardens. Dir. by Ellen Hovde, Albert Maysies, and David Maysies. Portrait Films, 1975.
I’m terrified of doors, locks, people roaming under the trees looking
at you. Sloths, otters, badgers, opossums, & raccoons see me as
a woman ; I don’t see that. If you lose something here, you can’t
find it again. It drops to the bottom in the complete sea of leaves.
I’m not a bit terrified of the city ; that’s all I need. I like the terrible
noises you hear at night. I’m exhausted but my teeth are still alright.
France fell to Hitler but I didn’t fall to a man. Do you remember
my relatives? They’re very mean to me. My father would say take
that nail polish off ; the only thing to be is a professional woman.
I’m mad about all this S-H-I-T. They didn’t tell us it would be
like this. I just wanted a little room in the city ; a little rats’ nest
with a sign that says IN BATHTUB. Now? We’re never going to get it.
I love swimming & dancing, but my muscles are gone with this soft
life & I’m not going to spend my days washing clothes. I don’t like
the country & I don’t want to be here ; isn’t it awful?
In the solarium, I feel something slipping like one eye pulled
against the other, like the scarf I lost ; the most beautiful
color blue. I don’t see any other future & if you say otherwise,
I’ll push you under the goddamn bed. When it’s 100 degrees
at night you realize nothing is important. I’ve got no makeup on,
but I’ve got it under control ; maybe you didn’t realize you were
dealing with a staunch character. We don’t weaken. No matter what.
Rita Mookerjee is an Assistant Professor of Interdisciplinary Studies at Worcester State University. She is the winner of the 2023 Steel Toe Books Poetry Award and the author of False Offering (JackLeg Press). Her poems can be found in CALYX, Copper Nickel, Poet Lore, New Orleans Review, and the Offing. In Philly, she went to the Marie Laurencin exhibit Sapphic Paris with her pal Carla. In the early 20th century, Marie Laurencin was painting portraits of a ton of baddies, and she did one of Coco Chanel. Mme Chanel did not like the portrait (which is stupid because ML made her look really hot). When she complained, ML called her a peasant and said next time she would make her look like a horse. Iconic!
