poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Wednesday, December 3, 2014

The Perfume Whale


Perfume Whales want you to sleep forever
 and while you sleep, they make perfume from your dreams.
The hedgehog and the selkie are in love in my pocket. I dance
across the bridge made of words, built

in an effort to talk around that grief, that street paved with steps.
Rena is funny. She says funny things. She makes people laugh.
She will always be laughing.
Inside the ocean is silence.

When the days freeze, the branches tap on the kitchen window.
It’s warm inside, but the trees don’t have enough money to come in.
Each new day is a boat, where we
share the protection of summery weather.

The Perfume Whale nibbles the rough paint
chipping off the sides of our days,
little white flakes at sea.
The selkies cut through Spanish waters, sleek.

I carry a bouquet of smoked salmon
cold in the throat when it goes down. Singing sea shanties
all the way to the bottom, and listening at the doors of shells.
Specificity stitched into the skin

and we are bunched up below. Quick!
Get in my pocket. My pockets are boats.
The captain said we must have him. We must have Hedgehog there,
I mean Quohog, in one of our boats.