The Unbusied Intersections Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Open wounds lying on their sides,
Paper airplanes wilting in the garden,
Beside the carport and beneath the roses:
And all day metamorphosis
As her tears proceeded to show for windows:
And mother and daughter remained in
Their afternoon’s pieta,
Watching television,
Doing one another’s hair, beneath the mountains
And the approaching moon—
In a little village of ten thousand souls,
Whilst around their borders,
Cyotes and caribu,
And mountain lions played a tin foil game
Of dreams that no man could see,
Scorpions bought their games underneath
Of the red stones and arrowheads
Until dusk—
And then, another sort of pleasure,
Crepescule, crept across the mailboxes
And the road,
And made its amber love amidst the pine trees
Giving deep kisses to the unbusied intersections
Of her limbs.