Rita Stein is originally from Baltimore and now lives in New York, where she works as a middle school librarian. She has had poems published in Stained Sheets, Blue Collar Review, Octopus Dreams, and September Eleven: Maryland Voices-Reaction, Reflection and Resilience.
Spring 2010
Table of Contents - Vol. VII, No. 1
Rita Stein
The poet wakes the sun
It’s an odd arrangement
but last chances usually are
O light
if I lay myself on top of you
and plant kisses everywhere
would you curl yourself around me
engulf me with your grace
stroke me, scratch me, burn me
would you use clouds as an excuse
to evade me
would you conspire with a lunar eclipse
to kill me?
The floor opens up in the middle It takes a special use of language © Rita Stein
Suddenly air, the enormity of it
Over and over, a clarinet refrain,
like love, sweet and foul
This December day, wet snow
Reading under a blanket,
no heat in or out
Violins arrive, and a coronet
Feels less dangerous in here now
Erik Satie is being announced
I find myself enjoying what I don’t like
Who’s performing here, I wonder
You make me say stupid things
just to keep the conversation going
Snow resting on the ground
Cat on the balcony
Packing up to leave
Threw out the stinky soup
We say goodbye casually and step out.
The net was too narrow and yet too wide.
to get the guts and glory
to come together
to make a story in a poem
but leave it vague enough to
create a wanting
to beg details to cohabitate
with syllables and not get
lost in the count
We say on blk day dwn
past ngl flw tu wndw
The service was in English
We put our share of dirt
on the coffin
Two people signed the guestbook
One bleak day at dawn
an angel flew through the window
