Robert Rorabeck

Bronze Star - 2,024 Points (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

Cannibalistic Daylight - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The empty page of silence flumes,
While my mother corrects her face:
My mother who is more than fifty years old,
Who just asked me what Kelly’s name was:
And soon she’ll be going to bed like
A fish.
Just like a lucky fish, who’ll never see the lips of
Liquor or brushed the lips of mountains.
Then on Sunday it’s Valentines and I can’t even
Spell;
But it will be beautiful to suffer through all the
Reflections of stage lights and false lions,
The penumbras of great amusements that
Are already leaving,
Those things that I have already loved that will live
As many lives as cats,
That will have as many children-
When the night is already cold and turned off into the
Avenues of her dead husband, I will turn her around
By her naked shoulder,
And ask her to come back and touch my cheek and ask her
To make my neighborhood again as luminescent as the
Fish who live so far beneath all of these affluent
Trailer parks as if to be from another planet
As far away as we are,
And as beautiful as never having to take another breath or
Having to tell my mother again the name your parents
Decided to give you;
Then you will be just as wonderful as if there weren’t another
Person beyond the two of us,
And the dreaded occupations of the immersed daylight
Had gone away into the bonfires of another truly tragic
Lullaby of cannibalistic daylight.

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, February 10, 2010



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