Her Unbuttoned Wasteland - Poem by Robert Rorabeck
And that is good....
Go after every new day like
A fisherman on a swift skiff;
Heedless with the nets,
Of the bad silver hungry beneath the skim....
Touch her hand across the earth,
Hold it if she cant feel you,
Hold it like you would a knife
To defend yourself....
Kiss the harsh mugger on the throat,
Like an adder until he is blind
And living in the boroughs of warm trains....
And singing of his cartoon mother.
Never look into the mirror
Without a friend, but call it
The carnival rag,
The broken toilet,
Or the concavity of the ruby rats;
But let the lights meet your face
Ignorant of their signals,
For each one is a harmless animal
Blossoming in the windy street;
Take them up to your room
And watch them swim around the whipping fan....
Dust off her legs and admire the opal flume;
Let them kick like restless alley cats eager for their fences,
Her calves like muscular salmon,
Until their jasmine and vanilla rub off on you
Her first and last names,
The accents of her explorations and trade routes;
Then take her there as a child greets a complete stranger;
Innocence and folly graffitied like a salted wound
Explored by nocturnal hunger and his accoutrements,
As your fingers, like a thorax,
Web effluvious touch against her unbuttoned wasteland....
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