poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Puzzle the Sky


Where we together have gone
            the clouds open and close around us,
the clouds are not afraid to be in the air.

If the farms below zippered open at the seams
            I would read that as my invitation to the heart of the world,
where we together have gone.

 We are flying on metal parts in a frame:
            we frame and puzzle the sky.
The clouds are not afraid to be in the air.

Point your nose at that:
            the metal spread cuts up into the white storm
where we together have gone.

Point your nose at that:
            the clouds don’t know what flying costs and
the clouds are not afraid to be in the air.

When we land can I be you and can you be God?
            Will I be someone else on the other side of the clouds?
Where we together have gone
beyond the illusion that we were ever apart.

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Good Friday


My airplane hunkers down the runway,
the eyes of my plane are pieces
big and dark on the smooth white face. My tail the flag
of an airborne country.

Grave-markers should look like clouds,
like uncertain soul-shapes and hologramed faces of cotton,
or maybe we shouldn’t mark death at all,
that inevitable transition to the greater galaxy.

Hell is being away from you. Hell is being apart.
Death can only be a release from that—back into the everything:
gone is the world that suffers from specificity,
from the God-fearing worry:

that either God didn’t have the power to prevent the death
of the only son, or God had the power but didn’t want to use it.
God wanted to watch a God-made-flesh die. God doesn’t love us.
Just above the clouds you can see the shadows

that the clouds leave on the ground
effortless like a writer moving her hand over paper
and leaving words on the page.
If I could read the shadows the clouds cast

if the shapes were letters
I would think heaven was flirting with me.
The earth is flung open for me.
The door of my heart is open. Come in, kind eyes.

The lit street unzips city leagues for me.
The lack of turbulence would surely disappoint you
but when my plane starts to shake you put your book down.
The poet across the aisle drinks diet coke

and eats raw almonds and writes in a formidable notebook
with purple ink. Sometimes when I look in the mirror I see my mother.
I must learn to look at myself with kind eyes.
I always thought my mother was beautiful.

Ice cubes melt faster into the tonic in the turbulence
my handwriting becomes like a shaky old man.
My grandfather’s hand was all precise confessions.
Why would you watch a movie about an airplane going down

while you are flying on my airplane?
The psychic weight of it is bringing us down.
Today is Good Friday, not yet Easter, I hope everyone remembered
to wash their hands.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Myth of Distance


Higher and through the airy part of the world, looking down
I know I will never return to that city.

Now we are above spotty little clouds
and the ground is grey through the mist of distance.

Nuggets of city shine below as a stranger sleeps beside me,
sitting up in her yellow coat like a daffodil leaning
towards an uncertain moon.

The moon is the future of every day, she murmurs in her sleep,
as the captain announces: we have been cleared for landing.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

We Earthquake With It


Tonight the silence of owls spreads over us
like the curse of a memory too allegorical.
Wake me when the heron comes home and I am a different animal.

Lies become fables for the future,
lifting off from the tangible weather, from the time of day,
tonight the silence of owls spreads over us.

The fat owls are curious. The fat owls want to play.
The skinny owls want to eat you. It’s not their fault.
Wake me when the heron comes home and I am a different animal.

A great horned owl has been here.
Her leaving is so heavy we earthquake with it.
Tonight the silence of owls spreads over us

and we pretend my footprints are stars that fell inside-out.
I would like to draw on your feathers with crayons. Wake me when you’re ready,
wake me when the heron comes home and I am a different animal.

God burns away in the sunlight.
It hasn’t been sunny in weeks so everybody’s been seeing God.
Tonight the silence of owls spreads over us,
wake me when the heron comes home and I am a different animal.