Like A Graveyard Of Butterflies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Losing your feelings in the yard- mowed by a Mexican who slept
Beside the junks of your house
And while he was asleep you scattered like Johnny Apple
Seed
Jugular boats and dye cast cars and paper airplanes of both
Sexes
Far across his work: and you swam in the sunlight as if you were
The delusions of a piggy bank,
And that was all your gold siphoned by the lips of your tank;
And it felt so good:
Why even then the pilots were taking off and landing in the
Sky, going to see their forgotten relatives of
Giants, like nosebleeds at the end of the vines;
And you supposed it was all possible, while the cicadas disrobed
In the gallant spectacles of jewels wept into the changing rooms
Of cypress:
And your sister was somewhere around, but not invited,
And your mother was upstairs sleeping with your father in a house
The same size as a modest university, and ever inch of it covered
In a carpet so green that it was where you’d hidden all of
The birthday cake you’d stolen those sometimes- so that it could
Spill right out,
While Alma was growing up in a little place in Guerrero Mexico
In a wilderness as brown and deep as the feelings you would come to
Know for her as they made their own way back again, finally resting
Like a graveyard of butterflies.