The Voices Singing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She cannot call me, and that’s all right:
The moon still rises over the park, and her shoulder;
And her beauty reflects in the lake of another
World:
It is not so bad, like the serpent says, and only
Means that I have to move on,
Like a knight waylaid for three days in a castle
That is her favorite color,
But is not his- and the world vacillates and sings
Like glass brought to the edge of her lips,
And she dreams about crossing the frontera which she
Had to come across long before and long after me;
And her children suckle off of her
As the weathervanes point out the direction of the new
Arrivals coming in;
And the little houses are built all around her-
In them she can hear all of the voices singing of people
She does not know;
And then by night, she crawls into him once more,
And goes away.