The Moon Was K's Father Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I don’t know your language, but how you
Climb those hills,
All that time laying your hands on the sweet clay who
Needed you;
It really needed you, even while I couldn’t speak,
Nor was your hair blonde, but it couldn’t care:
It still went down past your ears as if you were a careless
Swaggered of a Navajo living in Gallup,
NM;
And I’ve been by the time the sweet roads entwine,
And my dogs love me, but they cannot speak.
They weep alone and the moon is unwashed and fully naked
And it goes around,
And K- is alone with so many children and their paper
Airplanes and their BB Guns:
K- could live forever, and she really should:
She can really go on forever, and she would:
I want to make love to her like juvenile sleuths atop our
Monuments of elementary school,
Where she never loved me, where she sang in her chorus,
Where she got high marks and a bunch of stars:
And she will go down good into the earth of mailmen;
She will go down good delivering the fine print of finer mailmen:
K- will live forever inside the tender teenage wings,
Fluttering out the opulent throats of the throats of our
Anarchic swings;
And her children have guns, and other precious things,
But it is hard to describe her with the moon looking down as he
Always does,
As if he were her father; as if the moon was K-’s father.