poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Girl from Guantánamo

American abuses ruined the name/ of the most Cuban song you know.
You love it anyway. You played it at the wedding
for Abuela. You want to learn to play the cello.

At the wedding there was a cellist, dancing./ You can't afford a cello
so you painted one/ life-sized on canvas/ this will keep you faithful
to the idea of getting a cello someday/ learning how it likes to make sound.

Right now it is enough
to look at the cello painting
and listen to Yo Yo Ma.

It is enough
to listen to Celia Cruz
and smile Abuela's smile.

It is like having a cello.
It is like having a Cuba.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Hopefully a bacteria

I say I don't want any soup/ he says, egg drop
and gives me a steaming bowl of yellow and float/ eggs cook in broth like this.
My lips still taste like toothpaste/ it's good I left the house. This egg
was going to be a chicken/ I was going to be a painter.

Painters cook like this:
wines by the glass.
Poets cook like this:
wines by the bottle.

White Zinfandel/ Pinot Grigio/ Chardonay
Merlot/ Cabernet Sauvignon/ yolk-thick and yellow,
when I'm dead offer me oranges and incense, offer me egg yolks and pony hair,
says the man sitting behind me.

I am the only one in the restaurant. There is no man sitting behind me.
There is no one singing in the kitchen. No soup/ no fishtank
of doomed lobsters. I have always had good luck
writing at Chinese food restaurants in the middle of the day.

My wife's sister, the man sitting behind me says, I hate her/
hopefully a bacteria will get her in the bowels.