poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Tuesday, July 22, 2014


See how dead are clumped here
but just past the far fence they are laid out in rows?

None of these accommodations are spacious
but they keep the dead still.

In Queens my people live among graveyards.
Hold your breath while we pass.

Some of these still have lanes for hearses to drive through,
and some have covered over the lanes with additional graves.

The cheese melts into the afternoon.
You can’t tell a swim from a suicide jump

just by looking at the bridge. It has to do with surfacing,
with whether or not you are holding your breath.