poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Saturday, October 10, 2015

Two Windflowers Under the Lights

Speak to me in the language where the word “love” is at home.
Love me a free country.
Every language has a homeland. I don’t need
whole continents. Just your two arms. Just you.

Friday, October 9, 2015

Illumination at 4AM

The narrow sound of a barn on fire
woke me to the window
where I watched the roof collapse through
before I woke you.

There was time to ask five questions
of the fire before the sirens came.
How modern. The kitchen blank
where I stood wearing clothes

while you ran out into the night
—underwear only—
ran until you realized it was just a barn. No people.
The miscarriage ghosted my vision

a narrow pain burned up and through
watching you. That’s how far a father forgets himself
—you would have made such a good one—
half-asleep, you ran toward the blaze.

Friday, October 2, 2015

The Ridge

Wind teaches the snow
to blow open the front door
in the night. Mad, you wake to close.
When we make the air hot
to cut the cold, it burns the world
cloudy. That’s the back-end.
Handle it. Test the yellow leaves
for burns. Flowers grow from ash
but they will not grow from snow.
Stone could go either way.
Most stones are signs.
The pimple in the crease
of my nose, (of all the things
my hands will do today,
the most difficult
will be teaching myself not to touch it.)
All day our proximity is wrong.
My hands lack the functionality
to touch you. I see your radar screens
and there are radio communications
all night between us while we sleep.
The front door of my heart is blown open
and you have snowed in. We live here.
When it gets too intense
you wake up and close the door.
There’s a ridge on the edge of the city. You used
to walk the railroad tracks up there,
tracks without a train. In metal and in memory.
The dining car. The chapel.
If the train wakes up, I will roll down the side of the ridge,
here, let me show you. Under the snow sleeps the burned leaves,
the old metal, the first time you fell.