The Fetishistic Seas Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She’s moved on, and the trees are bigger.
I live inside a shell at a restaurant where it always snows;
I am afraid I am sounding cliché,
But there is always a little grain of sand in her
Birthstone: We used to run together,
And she would push me along and blink her eyes
Along with the sun through the boughs.
Now, of course, the rivers flow south trying to keep up
With the birds- I never leave my house.
My muscles don’t work. My twenty-seven year old mother
Sleeps on the floor of my room;
She feeds me my liquor after first tasting it with her lips,
But of course we don’t get along:
I want to lead my armies in clothes to small,
With peacock feather and my favorite bowling ball:
And where she has gone to gossip, I can imagine the light.
I’ve painted my room to mirror her eyes,
How she used to see me and we’d disembark;
She had the voice of Johnny Depp,
And I floated along under her painted nails. In the parking
Lots of shopping malls, we’d look for whales,
But everything was illegal in that long ago kingdom of what
Not- Now she is just someone who answered the seasonal
Ululations of a crippled tree frog; instead of teasing me,
She collected me with the fermented pornographies of a bright
Haired labyrinth, and drizzled her honeys around my
Expressive forehead in the hydrangeas sprouting over the easement,
Until the postman came with different letters for boys
Farthest off than me; she took those as her better duty,
And skipped far across the fetishistic seas.