Graveyards Of More Familiar Haunts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She doesn’t like you,
She just wants you to make believe:
Look, there are the shadows: go there, grief:
While I fatten my body with all of this
Liquor:
While I become a Christmas turkey, and the passengers
Look up, blessing god, as their planes
Touch down,
And their little worlds attribute to their larger arrangements
And dinner parties
That I have volunteered to leave from, to step out
In the mowed yard, listening to the kittens
And to the fountains,
Spilling myself alongside the traffic- beginning to
Forget myself, scarred and bludgeoned:
This is the way I will go now- a pilot of a wolf,
My words sounding through the abandoned estuaries of
Gutted houses,
Looking for a place to bare my children from these wounds
That the homeopathic silvers have kissed, slightingly
Before retreating like terrapin into the pockets
And graveyards of more familiar haunts