Even When I Told You I Don'T Believe In Satan Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Simple words like cherry red
Cars in the sun-
And I don’t believe in Satan-
Potted spikenard consumptive upon the sea wall,
Crinkled by salt, diminished by seagulls,
And I don’t believe in Satan;
But cast eye downwards in the telescopic sun,
Why then are you there in the sand
With that man-
Why then are you there in the sand with that man:
My girl- my girl. My only girl-
Wasn’t it me who breathed you from the sea
Instead of going out to dinner-
Wasn’t it I who payed your way and gave you
A wishing well of fair won goldfish;
And there isn’t a cloud yet in the sky- it is a blue
Color all its own,
And grandmothers are alive- and grandmothers
Are alive,
But what empirical corruption so close at hand-
I telescope with my eyes,
His hand winnowed upon your shoulder blade,
Your balmy fan,
Except I cannot see your eyes- they must be looking
Toward your home,
But the spikenard is stolen from the mountain-
The meter is out of coin;
Grandmother is in her grave-
Isn’t that your hand in his hand even when I told you
That I don’t believe in Satan.