The Gardens Of Mexico Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I helped her down from the mountain
and we slept together in the woods.

The space between us was enormous,
unimagineable,
but still somehow-alas-
we managed to make love-

And to have children-
aphrodesiacs of the crystalizing snow:
Embrazes, emphatically,

They entered pupis, emerging,
Winged, hyperventilating across
the gardens of Mexico-

Now, looking at her eyes inbetween
glasses of milk-
The desolate hum of the desert,
the coyotes braying at her throat:

an unquotable jewel in her bedroom of
boreal silk:
There she lies, winged, collapsed,
matted excrementally,
new born child at the tit:

Half-hazzardly. The day poured hard rain,
The mountain lactates,
the foil and sive of silk-
Encombers the races-

Eyes looking up to the theatre, voices breathing
without a moon.