The Dancers Dancing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I bought forty dollars of candles today at the supermarket
Near my historical house,
And maybe I cried for Sharon, but I don’t want to think about it
Or any other white girl:
My phallus is always happy when it has time to remember how
It slept with my body underneath the broken down school
Buses of our high school:
Together with the orange fields and scuppernongs of our truancies:
And now I really have something else to love,
While the bodies seem to make their way up again like wild flowers
Who have nothing else to perceive of their business expenses
And the deep intrinsic ways in which they greave,
And I have never been on a bus to Mexico, Alma, but let me go there
With you for at least a year or two,
To Guerrero to see all of your lost family, and to fly again,
While all of the copper heads are standing up and
Saluting us and kissing or ankles,
Or are at least curious enough to ask us questions,
While your soul gets up and pulls my reclusive soul out from the ribs
That you stole from me,
So that in the patina of our lost orchard, we can set our selves up
As dancers: Alma, the dancers dancing.