poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Thursday, September 27, 2007

said the 100 million-year-old bee

I knew right away what kind of trap it was.
I knew the words goldblood and moltonmiddle
because I had seen amber before. I had known others like me
too old to escape this yellow melt. I didn’t know
if there was still a moon,
I expected to be ash in the morning.
I remember wondering
Will I wet-rot inside this rock, and
When do I begin again?





This was inspired by a discovery at Oregon State.

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