Even More Lines For The Sacrificial Untouchables Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’ve used too many words-
I just wanted to recreate the sun, burnished
And tan, over your sweet swing-set,
I wanted to be your man,
And make up for my scars, my undefined chest
I could open up to show you the glass-blown
Gifts of who you really are,
But I’ve said too much- I’ve become lost in
The third fitt of this modern fairy-tale-
Who are you really? I won’t tell,
And all the flowers are beautiful in the meadow,
Like Catholic candles lit for mass-
Though they might now be dancing, they will
Soon blow out, but even then
You are my Jesus, and I’d drive all day for you,
And write down the exegesis of your thighs, underlining
Our children, spit on my palm,
If that was how it was really mean to be,
But I don’t believe you- your hair is as auburn and
Waverly as a drunken wave- If you are not a mischievous
Otter in your sweet and alcoholic habitat showing off
For ever boy,
Your thighs tight and gripping the bicycle’s seat,
Then you are the naiad of some seven seas, a tall drink
Of water, a wedding gown flowing down into the other
Man’s lap, delighting in the breathlessness of my pain-
I can even see you now, and how your gaze burns healthily
Nocturnal and satanic,
I wanted to love you and live forever swinging like a
Gleeful censer in your nippled park, but you are not my kind
Stewardesses- With your knives, you cutpurse,
Didn’t you only want to come and delight over
The wound you carved and salted.