Like Speartips Into Your Bosom Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There are reasons that I keep writing it down,
But I am not sure that I remember;
Maybe it is because the lines have made a tragedy of my
Features;
Maybe it is because she has gone away and I know there
Is no more collecting her:
And so I remember things from a life while it was still
Breathing:
I remember my mother stepping over an exposed extension
Cord toward the washing machines in her grotto;
And the Australian pines hiding the chassis of junked but
Beautiful cars,
And in them moldering great heaps of 1970s pornography:
And the days would weep, and shedding their clothes through
Daycare, would get naked: and I would piss in a little
Plastic chair, too afraid for some reason unknown to me;
And my sister would weep for me in turn, and the dogs would
Chase the cats chasing the rabbits through mother’s rock garden
That bloomed especially for Easter;
But all of them would be eaten in the end; my sister would become
A married professional: the road would widen,
And I would be left with nothing else but the sky above smoking
In a cathedral of cerulean fire;
And I would remember other things in the half truths that would
Make me a liar;
So I put them down, realizing that if I can no longer look into your
Eyes, you might still see into my own by these little
Things inching like spear tips into your bosom by soft degrees.