poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Saturday, April 25, 2015

The Night Spreads Stars


Beskin’s calf got out last night,
so young he swings a baby pink umbilical cord
and sometimes he crumples to the ground, legs wobbly
yet trying to escape. The stink of freedom
is a warm blanket of smoke that protects us from the stars.
Earth rests low in the belly of the universe.
If Beskin’s calf can make it to the road, he will leap
from one side to the other, because the middle is mud
and even a newborn can intuit that sink. The baby cow leaps
into the dreams of the townspeople. Your mama is so fat,
begins a scowling man in one dream
while the lovely ice cream of home calls another dreamer to half-wakefulness
and the window keeps night out there.
The small cow wobbles through our dreams on new legs
and we don’t notice. Lay down in my dream, baby cow
and I will wrap us both in a blanket of smoke
and we can Sputnik around the Earth together—
that satellite is my other self—but now the little cow
wants to go
back to his mother.  
The night spreads his cry over the heads of the dreaming town.

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