poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Sunday, March 27, 2011

Bird Painter

I will not work cages into the pattern anymore, or birds singing to no one,
in a fit of flight they hold back my heart.
Bird-hearts mend slow; glue and stitches, hollow bones, sinew and tracks,
a fine-spun air, the gentle exhalations made while painting.

In a fit of flight they hold back my heart,
I paint escapes, then cover everything in
a fine-spun air, the gentle exhalations made while painting.
I could cover over canvases with wings and fly.

I paint escapes, then cover everything in
yellowed wallpaper and I set it all on fire.
I could cover over canvases with wings and fly
but this flight is made of such old pulp/ I touch it, it starts to disintegrate,

yellowing the wallpaper and I set it all on fire.
I will not work cages into the pattern anymore, or birds singing to no one,
but this flight is made of such old pulp/ I touch it, it starts to disintegrate,
bird-hearts mend slow; glue and stitches, hollow bones, sinew and tracks.

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