poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Thursday, September 1, 2011

Song of the Concertina Lemon

A beaker of bleach
bangs the bell of the ship, she is

blind but for this color yellow,
because she walks in beauty with the night, her daytime eyes are dim.

So I paint myself in sunshine, for her/ every morning
buttercream beyond legend/ the blondes of combustion

in the history of poetic nitroglycerine/ the day-true
story locked up in the sunflower sun.

My bright whalemoon
hung true halfway in the twilight

and halfway in the night.
I would die and be a lemon tree/ all fruit in her sight and she

would tell me through my roots
all the water-secrets. Yes, dear

she would whisper gold-truth into hard old ears.
When she died, the stars shut their eyes,

and all the world dreamed in black.
That day I left home for the whale road.

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