poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Thursday, June 30, 2016

Red Fox, Early Summer


When they are too skinny, beware of rabies, mange, feelings of alienation.
Someone shot the fox off the ridge in the backyard

the one that cut a black figure in the sunset
we took his heart

and planted it. A magnolia tree grew
and Omi said it was the first time

she’d seen a tree as beautiful as trees were in the old country.
We took the heart out of the old house and planted it here:

a fox blossomed. When they are too fat
beware of gratification, pleasure, feelings of satisfaction,

a fox fulfilled forgets
how to kill a chicken.

Monday, June 13, 2016

Speeding on the Long Island Expressway


Cigarette butts crushed out
into the narrow edges of sidewalks

beset with island roses
at the corner of summer and Sunken Meadow. Anxiety.

Candy. Cigarettes. On the way home from the beach
we’d both smoke and drink iced coffees.

Polished toes on the dashboard,
she cranks the radio—this song—

I run my palms up and down my smooth shins,
the song is summer-high and hard-yearn.

I make fun of her for not knowing the words.
Rain comes suddenly, race you to the car,

sand lodged in the cracks of the scratchy leather.
You have to learn the words so we can sing it together,

until we got pulled over—
my mother was a blue flower and I was a flame.