poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Saturday, May 29, 2010


My millions buzzed every sidewalk
berries splattered and bloomed with every step
I started to write a poem in my head about it
(sneakered sidewalk paintings, dark and geometric)

berry stains make racing stripes up to my thighs
when I run/ with my hands out/ catching
bees/ bees take me into the air/ my legs work back and forth

higher and higher/ I will turn into a million tiny wings
and when you touch my body
your fingers will flutter, my millions
of geometric air spaces will run with so much sunshine.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

No Wolf In The World

It looks just like a drumstick
he is crunching up my sinew and my saltlick skin.
The wolf has me in a tree/ he bit my thumb off my hand
looks just like it came off a chicken/ in his mouth the color of berries bleeding.

Now the next dream comes/ it is a wolf spider this time.
Have you ever seen a wolf spider? It's the size of a motherfucking starfish.
The tree I'm in is filled with them and my hair is spider hair,
I can almost speak their language

and then my heart explodes. I wake up and I lock the door/ load the shotgun
with my exploded heart (my fucking heart exploded)
though certain spiders can pick locks with their hot, hairy legs
ain't no wolf in the world/ gonna come in here and eat my remaining thumb.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Burning Out the Ground Bees

Tonight we're having a good bourbon pie and we need rain
because the ground bees are back/ they make little black tornadoes
and fill in the abandoned mole holes with their aggressive bullshit.

Birds ate the sunflowers behind my house while the neighbor burned her ground bees out
three lines of flame shot through her lawn
and all the wet little green leaves of grass put the fire out. That lucky bitch.

If this pie sets, victory is mine/ if it sets and the ants don't get to it first.
Dear God, why are these ants all up in my shit?
I'll flame out the bees myself tomorrow but if you see

small fireballs chasing me around the yard
while the neighbors sit on their porch and drink and laugh
would you please use the hose to contain the fire?

Ants eat everything that would be a door. There is no word for door
in their featherweight language. A hundred words for food,
shit and tunnels. I read that book a long time ago/ I've had a few concussions since then.

A wave of ants/ a motherfucking typhoon. A tornado of bees
dark and sharp/ with no interest in honey or blossoms. Today
it's all about empire. Spiders know the crush of my hands. Thor

tolerant of their hungry weaving/ enjoying the music of the web-catch,
lovely until the invaders are too numerous and I sweep them out of Valhalla.
These days the cows on the hill say beef instead of moo

they will know the crush of my hands too/ on the day the bees learn about fire
the wooden chairs will realize their legs and they will flee the kitchen
clattering the floor like stiff little horses who don't yet know how to neigh.

It's already too late to pray for rain (wish I knew how to dance for it)
too late for the pie to set (a waste of good bourbon, sugar, cream cheese and eggs)
the Derby is this weekend and all those fancy horses will run like lines of flame.