Mercedes Rodriguez

Mercedes Rodriguez

Paloma

“To help myself rise in the morning, I make a promise. Someday, I will cause as much pain as I feel.”

– Sumita Chakraborty, “O Spirit”

Unwilling to relinquish my grief and its questions,
I take a job as a mortician’s assistant. I change my name
to Paloma and cry with widows . . . women who aggressively
point out my white-winged namesake painted on the walls.
It’s easy to get overwhelmed, so I take breaks in the nearby
orchard, which makes my whining immaculate and necessary.
My father, who called almost anyone a kindred spirit, died
holding a neon pyramid he found in the park. Like a daughter
possessed by envy, I hid the pyramid. Like a daughter possessed
by envy, I didn’t mention the pyramid in the eulogy.

A lonely, mortal thing . . . I launch empty vases
into the night sky and watch as porcelain takes a plunge.
I sweep the pieces with an old broom and hold on to the light
verb debris makes when swept. I like the tickle of the hearse’s
engine. The details of its leather seats. When my boss isn’t in
the office, and no one seems to be dying, I take the hearse
for a joyride. I remove my clothes and sit in the driver’s seat
with nothing but lingerie. Ever since I learned pantyhose
(if tight enough) can be used to apply pressure on a wound,
I’ve been a bit braver.

Mercedes Rodriguez is a poet and educator from Los Angeles, CA. They are an MFA candidate at North Carolina State University.