poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Oh Home

See how they dig down now, years later, what's left?
An empty grave/ old lace curtains/purple flowers
a little boy eating apples until he gets sick.
I've been here before.

Of course I can't remember the words.
I'm stuck with the tune only, as time makes lace-holes in my memories
of the shore. There's no one here, just stacks upon stacks of silent crimes.
Ocean keeps making sculpture from everything,

keeps drawing the same thing in the sand.
Oh ocean, how you give yourself away
someone's bound to notice the pattern.
(Are you sure you want to do this?)

When they finally see the design, then you will speak through it,
your wet mouth will know a hundred different ways to say home, tell them that,
tell them I went home.

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