poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Sunday, September 28, 2008

The Moose

I lived for almost a month convinced I was dead
and singing songs that didn’t make sense. You say it’s okay.
I like the sound of that. Will you be my main character?
I want all my new poems to be about love.

We are driving up to Maine
when we pass a motorcycle on its side
half-covered by a big black stained blanket. The driver is down, got
one arm around the guardrail and the other trying to gather up the road
in a backwards hug. The cops aren’t there yet
just some guys in jeans and sweatshirts who wave and rearrange the traffic,
directing us past the brutal place
where everything gets slow and silent and terrible.

That moose was huge, you say finally.
What moose? I didn’t see a moose.
I just saw a blanket.
I am worse then blind. I saw a man drowning
in the ocean once and he just looked like a big, white fish. I looked away.
I didn’t understand why so many were running
to the water, like some sort of backwards shark attack.

Worse is when I see things that aren’t there. Just black
flutters in the corners of my eyes. Spider, moth, bat, ghost shadow hallucinations.
How can you want someone so damaged?
I am just freaking out now
and you take my hand.

You say it’s okay,
which is code for
sometimes it’s better not to see the moose.

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