Who Has Forgotten How To Fly Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Who Has Forgotten How To Fly



Waking up to your children:
They are there, Alma, nuzzling at your olfactory,
And other heirlooms that don’t come without
A cost,
While the canoes are lost underneath Colorado:
They keep collecting for themselves underneath the
Accumulations of Pocahontas,
And into the ways by which I’ve delved for you,
Coming up thunderstruck,
And crippled- while your children are ready,
Elementary,
And as beautiful as the headlong weeds:
The roads they move along are wooded, green in their
Verdure: the mailboxes drool:
There seems to be stones here mounted from the armpits
And tear ducts of god:
Either he bleeds or he sweats, while the dogs that you
Named leap:
And the keystones weep in chorus,
They moon around and wait for you to come home:
It seems as if you are like my mother playing hooky with
Her younger brother,
And this is yet another world I don’t know a thing about,
That I sing to while I am lost and
Throwing unanswered prayers to the fire,
Waiting for you, a brown angel who has forgotten how
To fly, to step around.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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