The Uneven Symmetries Of Her Body's Bloom Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Oh- the gunman slips and bights his lips
And gets drunk at the traveling show:
I know that there he becomes awake, bitten by the snake
And the lightning throws the game:
I know- the candles in the wake, the birthdays in the cake,
And the footprints or the hoof prints in the snow:
It goes unrecorded until death, I know- it spills into the creek:
It cuts my mother’s cheek, and it goes unanswered
Through the day- through the school yards, and the fresh cut
Yards, unanswering: it is all I can do to shame myself,
To count my wealth, to sleep alone my flesh on bone:
My flesh on bone in an empty house without a spouse
With the roof on top and on top of that a moon:
I’ll sell Christmas trees: I’ll sell Christmas trees and await for
The herons and the loons:
Their special chests of bright unrests slipping through the
Cul de Sacs and brandishing their spry young sprigs
Up against the troughs of pigs; and up against the formicated
Moons: and passengers there will sit and stare as
They look straight over the naked shoulders of her dressing room:
To compare the wild blunders spilled across the feral wonders
In the uneven symmetries of her body’s blooms.