poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Sunday, August 30, 2009


Once upon a time/ something let go
and the whole thing just shifted. The core released its grip. The waves got too big
to just go in and out/ in and out/ in and out/ so, the waves went out and stayed there.

They watched for signs that the water would come back.
They said /deep deep/ down from here, the ground broke.

Ghosts walked the earth with bags over their heads then/ and as the ocean
made one huge wave that would run back/ crushing/
they yelled out into the calm/ before:
this is how you have a war.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

New Corn

Today on the highway/ there's hundreds of white cars,
men in starchy summer husks/ speeding toward the strip-mall church
to worship a god no bug wants. The poems have stopped working.

Weeds won't grow near the big fakes.
Kernel by kernel/ well-stocked breed of debt.
If the bugs reject it, it's no good.

Mornings at my desk in Indiana
I watch the highway weep white cars.