An Agnostic Pieta For A Mexican Fairytale Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It was the madness that is always here, raining hard
In the afternoon,
While the morning was a litter of sun; and I strutted in
My diminutive foyer like chanticleer yawning into
The bred basket of morning:
My heart being swung and bled by a sieving grievance
That harvested my soul without anesthesia:
You were late, but you came in your miniskirt-
Your shirt had a blue ribbon in the back,
And I wrote a poem while I carried you into the bedroom;
And we made love: it was happiness for awhile:
It was the end of your period, and you wanted me to
Pull your hair-
My fantasy for a little while, breakfast before I leapt into
My car and to another day at work at the fruit market:
You were a time saver, something immortal with a
Family who would not tell me she loved me,
And you grew distance when I finished what we had started,
Spilling the frog-like perfume into the slender ballrooms of
Your wildflowers;
And grew unreasonable, though I reclined on my knees
And pleaded- an agnostic pieta for a Mexican fairytale;
But later on when I saw you, you were like the sea on a calming
Fieldtrip, and I invited you into the cooler and gave you
A hundred dollars to spend with your two sisters at
The mall, Alma- until the world spun around again, just a joyride;
And now you lie there with another man, delicate crafts of
Soft brown dreams protruding from the afterthoughts of
My daycare, while the liquor mollifies the little wounds
You left on my entire naked body,
As you come to me again, my eyes closed, in your mini-falta,
Your tiny brown knuckles as soft as the dun snow-bells of angels,
Inquiring pleasurably on my tiny little door.