Like Cloud Buried Under The Stone Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Going to bed through the brightness of clouds
Blearing like kindergarteners wearing orange at the pool:
Bodies unscarred, just plucked from their mothers
Who think that the air-conditioning is a natural occurrence:
I stole so many trinkets in kindergarten:
I stole the entirely jubilant rug: I stole it for Chelsea
Because I was a kindergarten thug:
My mug was crooked but golden: my grandmother took me to
The palm beach zoo and science museum:
Now my grandmother sleeps like stones under the clouds:
Her body ruptures, and her hair grows like clouds:
Beautiful women from India wearing their chemise- Wash naked
Next to the jaguars and the cheetahs, walk barefoot and naked
Across the wide open cemeteries:
So brown and cool, like perfect mud slipped through the fingers
Of a sculptor,
While the airplanes burn and gyre so far up above;
And looking up, I wonder if they can even remember her:
Who she was,
While the earth turns like cooling marble- not as pretty as it was,
Or prettier-
While girls from India look up with eyes from all of their lives,
And my grandmother still grows like cloud buried
Under the stone.