Fishing For Sharks Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My father looks so beautiful
As he kills what is his:
My father looks beautiful, dressed up for showbiz:
How many enjambments has he come to cost;
I don’t want to talk about father-
I want to get lost,
In your amber eyes- In your auburn amusements:
I don’t want to acknowledge your guys,
I just want to fornicate in your salt-water abutments:
Oh, I love you- I love, but that’s like saying
I have a soul- So much a cost,
And so much a toll:
Rather that you were a ghost, a holiday of fear,
And instead of wondering of your beauty,
You just curled around me ear,
And spoke to me of the strange sciences of loss:
I don’t want a father, whatever the cost:
I just want you in a house in a room,
With your fingers in pies, and your hands on a broom:
I don’t want mountains or streetcars or mountain-lions:
I just want you naked, suppliant,
And rather a mother of tombs: I want you swept and
Colorless and weaving stories on looms;
And, if you’re fetching like broken glass,
While then I’ll leap over the low bridges of centipedes
And water moccasins,
And make you my lass;
And feed you the fingers of my silhouette,
And mount the svelte of your back, and make you moan,
And eat turkey and mash potatoes with you;
And call you my pet- Then we’ll go out into the bottomless
Merry-go-rounds- and catch my sister,
And fish for sharks.