Well Before She Could Even Say Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Days going away, growing up like ladders pressed like
Clinging girlfriends through a Faberge orchard of fireman lovers;
And we have so much fun, that the blonds can’t help but running
To us and collecting us from where we’ve
Fallen off the stage; and they are the apples of our eye,
While their father’s quit the Navy and disappear into otherworldly
Families;
And she shakes her tears in the bedroom, like a sky taking things
Off:
She becomes a child of rolling milk, the tears of a silver body
Raining in the soft basins framed with human bone:
To make love to such a doll, such a philologist, who cleans up afterwards
In so many languages;
And the sun over brand new cadavers; and we hold hands in the valley,
The good boys in California making good movies;
And me like a smiling crease in her brightness, finally rewarded for
Learning all about her and using it to my advantage well before she
Could even say who I was.