Lamenting Over Their Fireworks Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There will be a sorrow against the house
As you go back to the shells of
Your road,
Barefooted like pornography for the rattlesnakes
Down the lonesome road of
Your childhood,
Just as your marriage did: and I remember my
Mother almost drowning here—
But she was saved—
Just as last Christmas I was married and saved—
It didn't hurt that I still had arrows in
My throat and no other way out—
And my bicycle waits for me down at the edge
Of the verdant canal that some anonymous man
Has mowed again for all of the housewives—
And the otter I have seen before is outdoors
Again, never tasting the lips of the sea—
And the doors of the school are open again,
But they are not kissing me,
As I am vanishing—
And all of the nameless waves, like cathedrals of
Nameless tears,
Lamenting over their fireworks—
Collecting over the imaginary orchards that do
Not have to pretend to grow anymore.