The Hungry Ants Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Spindles of golden hooks happening in the bows of the
Treeless hills,
Or the voids that can never be cleaved; and if it rains
From her eyes, at least it is miles away,
On a fieldtrip to a roller rink that isn’t even alive anymore:
Maybe you loved her,
Maybe she killed you, or it was just an amusement to give
The children behind your eyes:
They are always waiting to be delighted, as the brown bodies
Move before the sea,
As if it was our wedding day, Alma; and you cannot swim,
But I want to take you to the sea and her hidden places
Tomorrow,
For you are a proper goddess, and a proper goddess needs the
Best sort of grottos,
And maybe we will dip into one another while the airplanes
Sing like arrows into the wounds that we can never
Avoid,
As the night becomes spent and lost, like a firework out in
The open field abandoned by Indians,
Like the child done with its weeping, motionless and blue,
Welcoming in the hungry ants.