Drawn By The Wounds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

As I am here, so you are still there:
Oh Alma,
Oh, Alma- all full of your dieties or whatever it was:
Famous, and from Mexico, while all of the white
Girls I once knew try to ululgies you:
I can cut my throat like a yellow toothed guppy cut from the gold
Coins rung from the fair and still live:
And still live, alma:
And I love for you- I live this way, even if it is just for you because,
Underneath the watermelons and underneath the simple stars:
I live, smoking and telling a dime story for
You,
Alma, flashing through the cantankerous woebegone;
Even after the fairs have gone, and the fast food franchises grow
Woe begone in the first spinning depths
Out into the first fields of praise- and I don’t remember what I’ve
Been saying,
Even as the out first chariots have been aloud to be out and
Cantankerous- and even as it is all spelled out,
And even as the words for her birthdays try to span the heavens
Through the kindergarten fingerprints of my hands;
I will love her through the ruby dimes of the roses that grow underneath
The footprints of the windmills or anyways: and here it is,
And it is dying- but here it is, anyways, and in its premature bedrooms
It is crying- and it is crying for you anyways, Alma- for you
My muse, anyways, it is out on the roads, open throated, drawn by the wounds- and dying.