poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Birds in Sunset

The velocity of take-off corrects my posture (upright of enemies, mine and thine)as she forwards fast and withdraws her feet. I trust female birds more. They build the nests and they lay the eggs and they get the worms. What do male birds even do? Are they the singers? The horizon line glows whitely like a break between chapters.

Chapter One: Earth
Each stick weakens her beak.
Earth is all spangled green and day-lit ocean.

Chapter Two: Sky
Everyone gets a free copy.
Every egg pushes into her back.

The eggs can't do anything. Male birds take the eggs and make bargains with snakes. I don't want to make anything. I don't want to make anything like that.

Clear air/ sunsetted rim/ squid-ink clouds
bruises of cotton and smoke/ laterally drifting...

The nun
(one row up)
black hair/ white hat
(called a habit)
holy bird

shrugs a white cardigan of clouds over her brown shoulders
(her white cane is scuffed silvery at the bottom)
we are flying into the sunset togehter
(even though I have not yet figured out what kind of)
bird I am.

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