If They Are Alive Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am going to die, mom.
Do you understand, father?
I am going to die,
Soon after you,
And I will remember you
Until I die
And if I have children
They will remember you—
These words I am writing,
Are they alive?
If they are
Then they will die—
Like a monarch butterfly,
One upon millions,
Poisonous,
Migratory;
They will find their place
In their season
Or they will die along
Their way;
They will die
In a week or two,
In a year,
In a day;
They are never to be heard again,
Stoned away;
They may seem to last
Forever
But if they are alive;
They will die
They will leave no choice,
They will have no children;
They will look like you,
Written in my hand,
They are your ancestry;
But if they have anything to do,
In a season
Once in bloom, They will die;
They will speak without reason,
They will bow down and deliver
Their message to their king;
They will sleep in the living room
Awaiting Christmas
For some years
Only to grow old
And thoughtless;
They will begin to forgive the
Reasons you came together
To give birth to the hands
Who gave birth to them;
And weary,
They too will lie down
Upon the earth,
Finally breathless
The journey met
In a language discovered
And fulfilled
In their rented and well
Maintained plots
They will rest
If they are alive—