poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Friday, August 12, 2016

Shadowboxer Logic

Would an algorithm have matched them?
Strip of birch
covered in ones and zeroes
too small to see
they read as white with black noise. Wishes.

Write the wish on the white part
leave it somewhere else
don’t let the trees see. Is she
allowed to tell him things that don’t make sense?
Summer is the big-hearted season

the open-heart of the year. The suicides
of August—the way the world ends: summer
smother. It’s not enough. All the maps
smell like church: holy water and mold.
Libraries are filling up with algorithms of love.

Friday, August 5, 2016

Owl Mouth

Nights I hunt with her
we read the incoherent sky

drink black coffee
against the morning,

enough to wash the blood
out of my mouth.