The Cannibalisms And Incests Poem by Robert Rorabeck

We make good symmetry, and with our hands molesting together
Over the backyards of planets,
We can proposition our gods to any excuses:
I kneel before the Virgin of Guadalupe and ask how long it has to
Be that I am just a Sancho, before I can get
Right down to loving Alma- and becoming her man:
I buy her many things, even after her birthday:
Even before Christmas:
I buy her heavy fans just so that I can stand behind her at the fruiteria
And smell the scent laid off her of her brown labor:
And it is as if I can smell the children on her flesh,
And even the mountains she has never been to, or has the energy to
Travel up to be
With my lonely and bloodthirsty gods: and I am so dysfunctional
That I only have the energy to wish for her,
As my cowardly spirits retreat after work and I can go to my home
By myself and water all of my flowers
Who have to admit that they will most likely die before my heartbeat:
But I am consoled, and that is my
Illusionary prize, that I have gone down on the muse,
And felt her ribs like a fever, like the first cradles for her children:
And that is no lie:
That the most precious sound ever made to my ears is Alma’s heart
Beat,
As her lungs edit the reasons for myself into something that can be
Sold;
As the cars drive back and forth like butterflies needing metamorphosis,
But who are too frightened to ever change,
Or to make it past again the vast rivers and canyons to the forest of
Mexico,
Where the cannibalisms and incests finally become too bright to
Ever dissolve.