From A Fountain Birthed Of Mexico Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The calendars are fraudulent over my body-
They say what time of the year it is,
As if playing a game of cards- as the brown body of
My muse, crossed over the thresholds again
To be with her young children- and her husband,
In the little house-
Alley cats have eaten the rabbits that once ate her
Mother’s mango tree,
And there are helicopters underneath the stars-
Cars pass before her threshold like pilgrims on
An easy journey- but she doesn’t have to think of
Any of this- and as she turns into him,
Brown bodies coalescing from a fountain birthed
Of Mexico,
With the lights doused around her children,
And fake programs on the television, she doesn’t
Have to think of me.