The World Of His Browning Arms Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If the rain comes in the afternoon again
I will write these words as I pretend to hold out for
You, as I gather these things from my body like
The leeching of poisons I exhume while the stewardesses
Look away- and when they are not watching me,
I vomit and I tear, and I think of the day I pushed you
Underneath the swings, and underneath the helicopters,
While you enjoy his brown arms around you
In the bed beside your sisters and the television of your
Children: I once traveled in search of you and slept
On a nearby roof: other travelers said you had made
Your grotto of Christmas presents in the next cavenaseri
Over but when I got to you, you said that you were
Already moving: that you were buying a house together,
As the mountain lions and wild cats climbed the hills,
Following the slow lushes of an insouciant wildfire:
As the blue jays flitted and ate the slow moving robins
That only wanted to lay down as ribbons in your hair:
And whatever I thought of you, you took away from me:
And the wishes I made for you, you took away on your
Birthday- so all of the towers overlooking the
Communal pools underneath the highest mountains burned
Away, and the lighthouses turned blind, and the guardian
Angels which once arced their circuits over your
Naked shoulder blades stopped leaping- and you turned
Away unceremoniously and made love only to him,
And you gave up your shadow perpetually to the world of
His browning arms.