The Weight In Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She said that she would say she loved me:
He has two children anyways; and she lives with seven other
Family members in a house no smaller than mine,
But one that they cannot afford: and this is the New America,
Sung to by a ghost who can never live again;
This is the petit mort of my new art,
In its casual catastrophe who by the twilight of whatever fireworks
There are left to spend is always ruining my liver;
And I can, and I have made love to her; but who ever thought
Back in high school that I would ever be making love to
A real live Mexican girl, light enough to fly- the fulcrum for
The existence of my inebriated poetry: I don’t even need to drive:
She is all that I have to prays, and she feeds me the overpriced
Food that I buy for her, each of us indulging in the self involved
Mirages of our glimmering eyes: hers even deeper than my own;
And come tomorrow I will see her again at the fruit market,
And the coppery meat plating her bones; and sometimes when we
Don’t even know it, we sit relaxing in the same air-conditioning
Of different theatres in the same movie house;
And we relax together like hunters in the colonnades of an over manned
Forest which always tries to sing her away from me; but she is
My art, as little as it is: she barely ways a hundred pounds,
But Alma is all that is the weight in me.