Who I Really Am Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I love the smell of your body:
Each of your ears are like the bouquets of wildflowers
Who don’t yet know what they’re
Going to hear;
And the fact that you live in a trailer park, and are
Yet so smooth:
I love the smell of your body against your husband’s
Clean shaven face,
Bear hugging;
And all of these tattoos of fanfares:
The I am left unintelligible and without responsibility:
I don’t know but that I love you
And that I stake out for you underneath the bleachers of
Carnivals;
And this is the way I move through the undulations of
My mistaken scars,
And the soda pops of high school cannot uncork you;
And this is the way that you move,
Fanning before me through all the hibiscus and the weeping
Plumbagos; and that you know me,
Because our bodies have increased our bodies in little ways
In the sheerest bluenesses underneath the overpasses;
And that you think that you should like to know
Who I am,
Even though I have yet to hold your hand, or to unfold into you
The seeds of the garden beneath the sheer tinfoil
Of the leaderless kites who might yet tell you about the man
Who I really am-
Who I really am.