poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Stuffing Person Whipped

cakes spring
cream on
sauce toast
tarts satay pigs

sables foccacia and local organic
smoked, sliced, Scottish in our own

served with our country
misty knoll sun-dried spiced manchego

with our Maine
with our Tartar

stuffing person whipped
creamed gratin

local organic
local organic
local organic
local organic

haricot

Vermont our own
our own

*denotes vegetarian

Monday, November 21, 2011

When We Are Poor

When we are poor, one hardcover
at the bookstore is worth two paperbacks
so we try not to look at the secure covers too long. Later
at the public library it translates unconsciously
(my purse full of call-numbered paperbacks)
and we never question it, telling ourselves
we read what we've earned. (Paper my back
because I do not own a home.) We spend
our wickedly lonely days eating pound of pink
lipstick and listening
(rooms full of voices) to all histories (in all languages)/ hear;
pains of regret/ pains of extinction.

Try writing the great questions in hot pink lipstick on the mirrors
(of the soul) Is there a God? (and)
Who wants to know?

Thursday, November 17, 2011

The Tumor That Was Actually A Wing

Putting her arm around the tree, she leaned into the quickening;
roots, branches/ her hair hastening to bark,

she was starting to the stick to that tree from the empty space
where the tumor that wasn't a tumor

had been disconnected/ pulled out
and it was found to be a wing, lost/ longing towards every bird.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Portrait

Bones.
Breath.
Story.
Heat.

Triptych

Whisper a portrait in miniature,
kiss everywhere but the small mouth,
steam across the sky/ in shout sounds.

Paint the miniature whisper,
do what she says with that small mouth/ kiss
and shout over the sound of steam.

Whisper, whisper/ paint portraits in miniature
kisses small but everywhere the mouth
shout across the sound, across the steamy sky.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Towers

Here is the world: Mother Enter and Father
Exit, in puddle iron latticework. Abandon your city,
abandon your home-made parachute
in favor of radiant energy.
Cosmic rays, come
scrape the sky, and mean it.

Ask generations of math
questions of pig iron,
questions of wind resistance.
Here is the hex: a cave wall picto-recipie
for a very pure form of structural poison.

We begin with a small sample. Does it work?
Are you immune to bites, to jumps? Only one way
to find out. I will set the stakes up high,
we can perch your tent on top; your snakes, your Jesus.

As the Eiffel Tower spreads her legs,
you take/ my perfumed hair for granted.
The iron lady in an apple-mythed world, fucked,
between/bites, you take
the high road/ only one way to the sky, you say.

The world is made of towers
and so many ways to fall.