poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Black Cats Dancing

Ice storm. Lights out. Let’s dance.
Can’t dance. My back has a pull like a stocking, a rip,
and I’d like to buy a new suit of skin now please.
Nobody, not even you can do
that for me. The tumor was the size of a fist, he said.
Your fist or mine? Everyone’s fist is a different size.

The fist came out of my back here and here and here.
Can’t count the stitches, there are too many
and I’m always looking at it backwards anyway.
I’m doing a pain dance in an ice storm.
My stitches turned into black cats dancing
where the tumorfist had been. The night had cold claws
too, the night pulled me open,
and all the good doctor’s stitches snapped.

Friday, December 19, 2008

Happy Holidays

Click here:

The Artworks 08 Online Gallery

to listen to me reading some poems at Dartmouth in September.

Happy Holidays my beloved readers!

Thursday, December 18, 2008

The Sorts of Things Men Have to Say

This music sucks, the old one with the gun said on Thanksgiving in Maine.
Christmas music was playing everywhere. At the auto parts store,
the young guy behind the counter talked and totaled up
for the old man on line in front of us who carried a long gun.

Yeah, it’s okay when I come in, you know…mornings. But then
by the time I go to close up it’s killing me.
These are the sorts of things men have to say.
I ignore them both. I like Christmas music.

Did you see the cover of today’s paper? the old one said.
Not yet. What about it?
Kid shot his uncle in the leg.
Thought he was a deer.

That should never happen.
No, the old one agreed. That should never, never happen.

And then we were back at your house,
more Christmas music was playing and I held open the lid
of the lobster pot as your mother grabbed a live one in her glove,
and the knowing lobster thrust it’s powerful tail back and forth at us both,

pointing at us, casting spells that we too should be boiled alive someday.
I could hear it banging against the side of the pot
while the others went quietly. There were lobster rolls and chowder
and Christmas music. We talked about the kid who shot his uncle in the leg.

Turns out the kid was nineteen.
I have been thinking about that lobster for weeks.
That should never happen. I repeat it to myself.
But that’s just the sort of thing us killers have to say.