poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Sunday, April 21, 2013

Manhunt


I wanted that 19-year-old boy to get away.
Seeing his picture over and over made me feel like I knew him,
and I wanted him to be forgiven.
If you’ve lost a boy, it might be him.

Seeing his picture over and over made me feel like I knew him,
and that would be better—
if you’ve lost a boy, it might be him—
because then he would not be dead,

and that would be better
and that would be worse
because then he would not be dead—yet—but
manhunt implies it ends in death

and that would be worse. A second death.
My life is a heart beating out of control.
Manhunt implies it ends in death.
They shut down the city.

I wanted that 19-year-old boy to get away,
and I wanted him to be forgiven.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Double Spring


First spring came out of a green plastic pipe
unevenly releasing a sort of dirty music and melting snow.
It wasn’t something you would want to photograph, but it was captivating
and oddly sexual. Spring is

unevenly releasing a sort of dirty music and melting snow,
an implied volatility in concert
with the oddly sexual. Spring is
when the orchestra played their version of realized volatility

in an implied volatility concert.
Second spring was brown and wet like mud.
When the orchestra played their version of realized volatility
the concert was in the basement and it was a pit.

Second spring was brown and wet like mud.
The crowd was right on top of the band.
The concert was in the basement and it was a pit.
The band loved it. They really went crazy. They lost it.

First spring came out of a green plastic pipe
it wasn’t something you would want to photograph, but it was captivating.

Moving Parts


Ever smoke so many cigarettes
you were convinced you were having a heart attack
but you kept smoking anyway? Ever get in a car
with a lover who took the turns on the Jackie Robinson so fast

you were convinced you were having a heart attack
and he told you he was going to kill you both?
With a lover who took the turns on the Jackie Robinson too fast
crashing on purpose? I love you. I love you. I love you.

He told you he was going to kill you both.
All the moving parts in the world are named love
and they are crashing on purpose. I love you. I love you. I love you.
You don’t get to give that away. It really doesn’t matter

All the moving parts in the world are named love.
You take the turns. You hold on with both hands.
You don’t get to give that away. It really doesn’t matter.
Sometimes the cure is the change of seasons. Or cities.

You take the turns. You hold on with both hands.
Sometimes you have to leave New York for Paris, learn French.
Sometimes the cure is the change of seasons. Or cities.
Name yourself something common.

Sometimes you have to leave New York for Paris, learn French.
Sometimes you have to leave New York.
Name yourself something common, while in photographs you appear captivating.
There’s milk and sugar right around the corner.

Ever smoke so many cigarettes you died
but you kept smoking anyway? Ever get in his car?

YOLO Whale


Traces of pale blue line the white lace of the bright town.
Our morning had a beach on one hand and a castle on the other.
There was no snow on the castle,
and I wouldn’t have thought of snow at all
but for that remainder under that old single pine tree.
How long will the blind tree guard that patch of cold white weight?

The ocean will not see it.
Sea birds die between striped boulders and smell like cold rot,
as the waves taste the rocks and sift through,
exhaling a tinkling requiem.

This morning Rena J. Mosteirin woke up in Marblehead, Massachusetts.
The town is red brick bright, not white lace. White lace was the bedside.
White lace was the town through the window
when there was still snow because the sun was barely a glow
and the cream was thick-white and the blueberries were too blue
and the strawberries were too bright. Like the cardinal
hidden in the dark arch of the old stone castle, singing,
“I’m in a castle, fuck your condo.”

Spring will evict him, of course, in favor of more cheerful birds,
but for now he’s the prince and he stands still
until the camera is ready to click, then he flies off
to go peck some graffiti into a cornice: YOLO.
Is there a spring break for architecturally-inclined animals?
Is that a man in a tracksuit doing push-ups on the breakers?

Or is it a creature fresh out of the sea,
stranded and demanding we bring her lipstick and a blow dryer?
Swimming out, I fight two gulls for a piece of pearly fish.
That’s a Rena Whale, out too far as usual.
Someday I’ll swim so far the ocean will have no choice
but to turn me into a proper whale. It is blasphemy
this not wanting to be human, but still wanting to be.

The lipstick has a secret mouth and agrees with me.
The hairdryer won’t go anywhere near the water.