By Your Makebelieve Heavens Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You make all of your love at the dry cleaners,
Waiting for the bed sheets to dry out, but you are so
Near the sea—the waves sound like
The wounds of animals echoing—and you are so
Near to me, but you don't come over—
You wait in the closest of spaces for him to come home:
He haunts you, as if this were still Mexico—
I place the Virgins of Guadalupe inside my house,
Trying to tempt you—but now I am married-
You go home wandering where you will find
Your next lover—you keep better men locked up in
The toolboxes of your breast—
I think that even once or twice you made love to one
Or many of your uncles—but your sent is yet sweet upon
These walls, and I get drunk for you—
And the liquor burns through my increasing body,
Passing through my joints and down near the baseball diamond
Where my dog sleeps,
And when you awaken tomorrow it will be a luxurious journey—
As you make friends with ghosts and skeletons—
And enjoy the illuminations of the disasters of all of
My hopes fall down, astonished by your make-believe heavens.