Her Home Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Doggone traveler, take comfort in your unrefundable works,
These wasted allegories of the mountains and streams which
Breath and mold from her breath and down from her neck,

For, yes, you will soon be smithereens, like the young and darling
Aspen leaves curling in the hoary lick of October’s cusping sickle,
Pummeled by the fledgling doe, and by the hypnotizing tracks of
Men who, such as yourself, travel deeper in trying to
Coat themselves by her musk,

For it is in that inescapable season, when you come best bloomed,
Then shimmer like someone not altogether real, sitting on the edge
Of a bed in a dream, that she materializes and leads you far astray,
Into the meadows and estuaries you knew to be but couldn’t say,

Thus cupping her effluvious trunk, combine her with your stuff
And she doesn’t even know, beauty in a tender suit of amnesias,
How even then she might fall into another man, distend and offer
Herself like a hungry meal, believing this is the truest she could be,

But held up to your transitory works, she transcends her body’s
Moods, and the panting infatuations of those eyes, becomes a memory
Materialized by the sifting dusk through the slender bodies, enters
Your house unaware and lays bare her shoulders, looking into your
Eyes, for you to lay fingers upon this actualization, and move each hinge

Until she can know for sure her home.