Faberge Tears Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Child in your arms: grown man in your arms,
Mother—made of topaz
And living outside of a church in
New Mexico—
Where they don't sell fireworks anymore—
I don't even know if you are really there,
But I know you exist just as much as I know
That the Best Western
And the Safeway exist—down slope from
Eagle's Nest where my father used to
Set up tents and shacks and sell and
Sell fireworks:
But you are also a place in my memory,
Delivering from the faith of girls who
Should have been my muses—
And I can hear the stream running beneath
The form of your dying son:
But put him in his crypt and he shall arise
And live forever—making nests of Ferris
Wheels—sleeping nude
And warm: do not cry mother,
For your son is dying—and in your arms,
His warmth escapes like the sun does over
Arizona—
But he is more real than that: the children
Will come and the go to high school
Tomorrow—
The stores will get busy—the beautiful fares
Will pack up and go to the next town,
Molting all of their Faberge lights in the
Process:
But your son who was already dying,
He has already arisen
And he will be kissing away the tears from your
Cheek tomorrow.