Unpublished Epitaphs And Things Like This Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have 16 lbs of sh.t in my gut;
Daddy takes the tractor down the hill
Almost as many times,
And I call the trees around him alligator
Oaks, because they used to grow-up
Here when it was only a sea: and alligators
Have been around that long,
Even as the sun tanked, even as it tanked
And swam;
And there aren’t even any ravens, though
They would be cool, especially on Christmas:
Ravens in the yard, a fresco with Cadillacs, and
Hot plums destroyed by curiosity and scars;
But now when the sun goes down, we will
Be moving away. My book is curling up on
The kitchen table. My mother reads it as she
Cuts onions, cries, because she doesn’t understand
Why I did it. I tell her, mother, I don’t love
Anyone anymore, the rivers have gone down to
The sea, the butterflies are all in Mexico,
And this is not a poem, mother, but a personification
Of a disturbing dream walking around like a craven man
With a pinwheel in his gut, turning like a child’s game
In the front yard, and there are yet the snows to do
The cover-up, even as she leaps into his ribs,
And takes one as her own; but they will come tomorrow, when
The sun stretches the shadows furthest, when the enemies arrive
By tallowed ships and we will meet them overzealously at the fjord,
Crying headily and shaking our fists: the lasts
Republics of winos and out of work gigantisms;
And sacrifice to them our new leaders, and brand new
Cars: Then there will be no more poetry, but
Things like this, and
Bonfires and curling husks which no longer scream,
(though we remember how they screamed,
So negative are they inside of the living)
Against which all the maidens will be taken, and
The virginal boys will suffer no more, in rigamortis beside the
Grayish ways, their heels sticking up like exclamations, like
Donkey’s ears, or cocoons dripping in blue silk which
Before took them many places so many
Times. For now her lips are like a quiet moon
Given to other continents, and pressed there no longer
Consider destroying our celibacy with a fine harpoon,
Crafted from her own amputated celebrations, a thigh
Bone of ivory she had no longer use for,
For no longer does she jog like a lighted doe across campus,
Because she has consented, and settled,
And ceased those odd visits
To these breathing graveyards to read the
Longest, and unpublished epitaphs.