poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Monday, October 20, 2008

Little Invisible Spiders

I was tricked.
I thought
If you leave me
I’ll kill myself

is what they all say
when they want
to break-up.

That's why I didn't take him seriously.
It's time to stop writing poems about that now.

You read my poems
to me, they feel like little invisible
spiders stuck in my hair. I am going to write a love poem that is not creepy.

September 2006

We eat cashew-tahini French toast with seitan sausage, tofu scrambled with vegetables and pancakes with real syrup. We have the Gypsy kings and Amelie and talk of the beach house and American Beauty. I wrote a napkin poem as a snapshot of our little hippie breakfast place in Vermont

and then I lost it. I was thinking a lot about Frank O’Hara that day and I was sorry I made you listen to Old Dirty Bastard in the car. Remember my feet were cold, and you unlaced your sneakers and took off your green-and-white striped socks and put them on my feet?

October 2006

The closeted homosexual poet to my left nods his head vigorously when I speak of Henry Adams. I bet Henry was a top. But that’s not what I’m saying in class, I am talking about chaos and I think of you who loves Cortland apples, like Henry Adams probably did and I think about Clover, Henry’s sweet wife who killed herself. You explain how the Adams memorial has no gender, and you give possible reasons for Clover’s suicide. One reason is that she didn’t get to attend Harvard like Henry and the rest of the boys. That’s not the reason Marian “Clover” Adams killed herself. Had she gone to Harvard she might have done it sooner.

November 2006

Sitting beside the road watching the cars go all wonderful
on me, what a day, everything makes me happy
because I am in love

I am crazy and I am a liar. My paranoid little invisible spiders
begin to dissolve. I couldn’t even begin to know
how to love you and yet I do. I do. I do.


Ladies here at the public park are gossiping in the cold
about a baby at the zoo. 50 pounds, they say, and five feet.
I want to go over there and ask them what kind of animal
but I’m not brave enough and maybe they’d get mad
at me, and look, they’re walking away anyway.

Confession: I eat important words for breakfast.
For lunch I eat SPAM e-mail sandwiches full of nothing-words.
I find queer counter-politics
and runt Newfoundland puppies in the same place.

They’ve discovered a link between bellyfat and dementia.
It’s actually a plot against women. It’s another way to convince
them that they are clinically crazy and unquestionably ugly.
I think about the conclusions I have drawn this morning.
Too much coffee makes my feet sweat, even on the cold days.

I was at a bachelorette party where there were construction paper penises
on the wall and a punchbowl full of pink clit. I can’t tell
if it is snowing or if there’s just something frozen blowing off the trees.
I hope I’m not shaking too much. In some mythology
there is a river where you can drink the water
and it makes you forget everything. I’ve been there.

I will miss Chicago and all of the intentional
imaginaries. Construction paper penises
seem like a sort of kindergarten pornography. Chicago is too cold
and everyone here is confessing all the time
and everyone here has forgotten about forgiveness.

Pamela’s Pancakes

Pamela made pancakes for the man who had raped her.
As the snow falling on the other side of the window pulled
the coldness from the air. It held hard at the chill
and it seemed warmer then it had been in days.

He was in the bathroom when she reached under the kitchen sink
didn’t even really have to think about it.
Pamela plop-ploped the rat poison into his half-full mug
and covered it over with the rest of the coffee.

The snow falling on the other side of the window
pulled the coldness from the air after holding so hard to that chill.
The air seemed warmer then it had been in days
when she opened the window a little to let the stale smells out.

Pam was friends with a girl who had been raped but didn’t remember.
Pam had an extra ticket so they sat side by side
and watched yet another woman ravished. Delightful, the critics said, beautiful.

Far worse not to know where the strange sickness comes from,
to know why you can’t stop running until you are home.
They went out for coffee after the show.

The last night I was in New York, the girl said,
I dreamed some metallic bloody smell in the air,
and I realized I was chewing glass
a whole mouthful and I couldn’t breathe enough to scream.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

With Me

Jump with me brilliant into the waves
waves that jerk you in cold and cripple

cripple and curl when they hit the sand singing
singing of red chairs in white rooms
rooms in churches full of clear wet flowers and colorful dry tears.
Run with me wonderful up to the coffin come,
come back baby, come back I whisper at the corpse cold

cold like the ocean is here. I want all the red chairs in the room to light on fire,
I want you to be alive with me.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Like Midnight

You can’t find the door. Clue:
in a videogame you would just have to go through the wall.

I made myself into a barn and burned down.
Now I have no door. I am the space between breaths

and the blindness of sleep. Can we just hug for an hour?
It is so good to see you. Your hair is so dark

like midnight it is all I can see. We met at a party where I was invisible lace,
that is to say, only holes. Luckily you are the kind of person who can see

spiderwebs in the woods at midnight. A handle
a hinge and a pull.