poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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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.

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