Empathy, compassion, and understanding inner sensibilities are not universal human traits…

They are traits routinely embedded in the work of the poet.

These are characteristics that define that literary genre.

These are nuances that permeate the thinking of the poet

That provide some of the humanistic pathways the poet elects to follow

To construct work

To refine work

To share work.

The poet is a natural leader and influencer. And in this unfathomable age of COVID-19, there are elected leaders who never had or lost the way of the poet.

Rita Mookerjee  [photo provided]

Rita Mookerjee, who resides in Ames, Iowa is an Assistant Teaching Professor in the Women's and Gender Studies Program at Iowa State University. Her poetry is featured or forthcoming in Juked, New Orleans Review, Sinister Wisdom, Queen Mob's Teahouse, and Cosmonauts Avenue. She is the Assistant Poetry Editor of Split Lip Magazine. 


Coconut Oil

As a teen, I wish I knew I had perfect skin
and spent less time shaving my thighs
and the small of my back, rubbing brown sugar
and extra virgin into my feet and arms while
my mom shouted at me to stop wasting water.

I didn’t want to peel the brown away, but I hoped
for something more dazzling underneath, maybe
gold or amber? I lived a life far from beaches
so coconuts were rarely on my mind, but once
I anointed myself with clear paste, boys would sit
by me at lunch, a girl at ballet would tell me I 

smelled good, and so my oilwork became routine.

My vanity grew loaded with oils. All of them
impart a different slick: some to lure people
in with a dark sheen, some to melt yesterday’s
kohl from my lid, some to prime me for escape.
At night, I’d stroke my shins and knead the petals
of my arches. After months in sun on hot grass
and driveways, I saw myself reflected in storefronts
and car windows and decided I would become
a bronze idol, a gilded thistle, a living ember searing
through my hair and clothes. Because of my oilwork
I keep jars all around the house—in the bathroom,
the kitchen, at my bedside—so I always remember how
to coax myself from the shower and out into the day.

* * *

Snake Den Haze

I’m never honest about how much I sleep

but it would be easy to figure out since I turn up

with smudged makeup, eyes retraced, speckled

with mascara crumbs. I oversleep a lot. In bed

I twist onto myself like a red ouroboros,

aching, stretching impossibly. 

I’m always dreaming of snakes and shibari,

coiling my wishes as I sleep. By day, I am swollen

and thirsty over well-timed glances or cancelled

plans because inside of me is a nymph, a hissing

hatchling who urges me to drink, to slide in and out

of dresses for people—much like a paper doll—

instead of opening books and washing dishes.

I’m getting worse at telling people how my day was,

because day isn’t when things happen for me.

I’d rather tell them about my dream of end times,

the movie that caused it, or my cervical orgasms,

but that kind of manic oversharing puts people off.

* * *

Reflecting on the Spirit of New Orleans:

Stay safe.  Be Well ~

bill

* * * * *

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