Of A Pieta Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Knowing what you will not use,
They glow at night by themselves: they pick up
The amusements the moon pretends
To steal and live off of
The wishes cast down from airplanes:
You never have to wonder where they are going
Now that she is gone—
Her children suckling all around her like a savage mockery
Of a Pieta,
And the garden overplays and becomes so overgrown.
She doesn't even have to pretend to be real
Anymore now that she is so close to you.