poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Sunday, December 18, 2011

To The President of France

The girls put the fly in the spiderweb
because they are girls, curious with hands
fast enough to catch (despite the multi-faceted eyed fly,
so small and so quick) they are so clever
and true to their own satiety
to want to watch

the moment when the spider fattens itself.
Girls, they feed they spider, girls
if the President of France knows more people with cancer
than models he has fucked,
always feed your punishments
with many-eyed crimes

because someday in the incognito of heartburn and sunglasses,
everyone you know will be dying of cancer too.
Bodies fill with blind tumors, oh, what good
are eyes in all the murk of this world anyway?

Thursday, December 8, 2011


Dueling omens put a spell on fashion,
they threw in divination of the future,
complicating the delusion of money
and poisoning manners. Last night

I drempt of money mania.
Knave/ madman/ magistrate/ rogue.
She says it's called "The Southern Divorce"
(making it sound fashionable, like a perfume or a style of dress

in the abracadabra of it all)
when a woman kills her husband.

While ruminating on the first days of 1900,
wear a shawl because it is cold in New Hampshire.
Learn a new waltz this year./ Waltz by the sea.

Have erotic railroad dreams
in which you are a mine. Coal, iron, steel,
come from you/ come back to you
everything huffing and rushing and quick.