poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Monday, October 26, 2009

Lost Bear

Sometimes everything stops.
Sometimes fish skeletons cross
to indicate danger/ on your underwear.

Tell me about that dream
island we live on/ wherever we are./ I don’t care about the name of the ocean
just tell me the address. Without it I might drown.

Instead of television I watch salmon
jump up the ladders
to swim through the dam

/some get chopped/

and some are saved by their velocity/ saved for the mouths of bears
low in the dark forests behind the superstores
where the buzzing electric signs attract away

the bugs that might otherwise get stuck in their fur.
Small reasons to be grateful/ always small/ always grateful,
and somewhere in this country a bear is loosing the scent of her home

and dies on the highway/ that world of nightmares.
You are not her/you have
such a family/ such a home.

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