poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Monday, May 14, 2012

Migrant


Let my exhales make a bed for you. Call me country
and do not ask the question.
Algorithms of motion/ mimic your instincts/ your
red flash between greens: leaves/blades spears/branches grass

shapes chase/chase shapes
a mirror facing a mirror
in a cloudy room. My hair dances
to the wind of your drumbeat. Leaves
in the voice, trembling, as (now whisper)
shapes chase shapes.

For every red and green swirl of universe
in your cup: cut away
into the mountain core—
perfect and in millions
(years, pieces, colors)
cut away—is there something below

bound to collect me? Yes. Here./ This my clay.
You can never lay down fully in a new country
without asking the question:
Mother, do you remember my name?

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