Robert Rorabeck

Bronze Star - 2,024 Points (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

In Flight - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In Spain—I drank sangria and watched a fleet of roses
Sailing underneath the feet of Salvador Dali—
That was near Port Beau—That was in Catalonia,
Where my aunt learned the Spanish tongue over the graves
Of dead Spaniards—
And there was artwork hung, and bulls, and corsages:
And a long ways to wait until graveyards—
Pigeons singing in Madrid, and still cheeks on my scars—
My love was hidden in blond curls and dressing rooms
And placed upon girls with lips as orange
As the sun:
Fetishes of swing sets—drunken nights, New Years—
The places that fill up inside of us—
Souls that become phosphorescent underneath the moon—
Avenues, slender ways, to struggle up to the balcony
Where she is sleeping—but what to say to her—
What tricks to pull:
The Mediterranean, captivated by a sea of rocks:
Petrified women, giantesses, wondering what it is that happened
To their dreams and when it is that they again can believe in flight.

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, April 15, 2012



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