poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Says the Body

You wake up sore and alone.
You are embarrassed. You want to go home,
but it’s so early that there’s no line at the breakfast place
and you want a good cup of coffee
so you go in and sit down at the counter, head down.

You see the pretty ceiling tile designs reflected in the coffee,
they shift as your hands shake.
On the counter is a newspaper, the story on the front page says the body
of the boy who had been missing was found by neighbors in the woods.
It appears to have been suicide.

Outside the window it is springtime
and the flower petals float down all white and pink and wonderful.
You are ten years old again, in the car with your mother
driving home from mass on Sunday morning.
The petals come down from the trees like soft pink blown kisses,
like Jesus is making big snowflakes in the springtime, just for you.

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