Issue 21: Esteban Rodriguez
Requiem
And after your tribe rations the last
of its fowls, and the dogs you voted
to kill are skewered, stuffed quietly
into everyone's mouth, you let delirium
reign, see shapes that resemble food
in every rock, slope, mountain range,
in the mirages that scuttle the desert floor,
in the shadows that pool into more shadows
when dusk prologues a fingernail moon.
Your stomach begins to eat itself,
and as families break apart, as elders –
ready to become powdered architecture
for the ground – urge their progeny on,
you too find a place to rest, and dream
of a dining hall, a feast, of a table filled
with guests, none of whom you know,
and none of whom you're meant to know
when you see God seated at the end,
dressed not in the suit you expect,
but a uniform adorned with ribbons,
epaulettes, and with medals for all
the earthly battles fought, for all the lives
he allowed himself to spare.
Matrimony
No church. No priest. No father
to walk you down the aisle, no aisle
but the path you dream inside a cemetery,
worn with toppled gravestones,
ashen effigies. Barefoot, you walk
through it, avoid the shattered coffins
the way one avoids an ambush,
the way a body suspects gunfire,
bomb blasts, shrapnel. Beyond the hills,
firefights rage, and even as smoke
suffocates the sunset, and villagers
begin their exodus, you accept
you're wearing a wedding dress,
that your groom somewhere awaits,
and that once you reach him, trade vows
like secret documents, the soldiers
at the gate will neglect their duty,
and with the grace of rice throwers,
shower your exit with grenade pins
and shell casings.
Esteban Rodriguez is the author of Dusk and Dust (Hub City Press, 2019). His poetry has appeared in various publications, including The Gettysburg Review, New England Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Water~Stone Review, Washington Square Review, and Puerto del Sol. He lives with his family and teaches in Austin, Texas.
Copyright © 2018 by Esteban Rodriguez, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.
