poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

On Line at the Fair

Someone’s dad would SUV us to the feast of saint something-or-other
on the YMCA baseball diamond park and we’d all say thank you
and hop out and pull down
our cropped tops and pull up
on the belt-loops of our low-slung jeans with our thumbs
and remember to remember our purses and fluff out our car-hair.
We got online for tickets, as soon as we saw the top
of the dad-mobile pull onto the street in line
with the other tired parents going home to
a wife and a movie with the cell phone glowing on the table next to them
(knowing they’d get a call before 11 begging
for one or two more good hours, and they would have to say
no, I’m on my way to pick you up now)
we’d light up our cigarettes as soon as we were sure he couldn’t see us.
It felt like we couldn’t breathe until we were smoking and coughing and
cool in the dim parking lot streetlights. Waiting on line
for our lives to start, waiting for something to do with sex,
and for drugs better then cigarettes. Everything was preparation
for a few moments of carnival-ride excitement
reality was waiting in line, adjusting our clothes and coughing.

Friday, April 18, 2008

I like you

Que horas son mi Corazon?
-Manu Chao

Remember at college when I lived in the basement of the place at 3 Webster avenue with Mark Root and I would climb out my window to the dirt and pebbles foxtrot parkinglot and put the speakers on my bed so my friends and I could dance barefoot like hippies to Cat Stevens in the summer sun?

I remember dancing in that parking lot behind the house with you to a Bob Dylan song the frat next door was playing.
It was evening and you were leaving—going back down to Amherst, so we held each other tight and danced like old-fashioned romantics.

Sometimes it felt like a movie about college. Not the sort of movie that’s funny cause white kids call each other “homie” and try to find girls to have sex with.
Ours is the sort of movie about college that they made in the eighties, where the kids were all graduating to some beautiful future so one of them has to die. And then they all cry about it, but move on gracefully saying:
only the good die young, which is total bullshit. We both know
beautiful deaths are only real in nineteenth century French novels set in sexy stormy Paris.

I think Hanover, New Hampshire is the most romantic place in the world.
That’s where we fell in love. You filled the river with fish who sang to me,
ducks who paddled next to me as I swam and told me all of your good qualities.
When it rained, it rained rose petals and soft presents that you picked out.
We wouldn’t leave bed for whole weekends at a time.
I love you Roo, you’d say. Roo is a cute nickname that is from a eighties TV show
about koalas. You and I are going to turn into koalas and get married someday, and
French novels will dance in the parking lot with Cat Stevens.

I can almost see them now from the window in my old basement room,
where I sat singing to you before I met you:
mi gusta la noche, mi gustas tu
I like the night, I like you.
What time is it, my heart?