Robert Rorabeck

Bronze Star - 2,195 Points (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

Mother.... - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am nothing, nothing,
And the bloom is broken.....
She has forgotten to check the locks,
And the monster is loose....

I am no more,
As he takes her with his will....
I am no more,
As my mother told me
The publisher was a lie,
An easy meal for the tiger,
The fanged stranger jumping on the shore....

Maybe it would be easier as a homosexual,
And more translucent as a nun;
The trouble-free men take her in the space
Of commercials,
Taste her like an effortless meal....

But I love her, mother,
And I am the only one,
Though don’t tell father,
Or he’ll eat me, the flatulent bear....
He’ll eat me, and then eat another....

There are strange men doing her as
They are able,
The dime-store strangers with perfect teeth....,
But they will soon decay, mother,
Their tomb-stones facing east....

Even after death has eaten me, mother,
Even after it has cleaned my face,
I will still love upon her, mother,
The hiccupping possibilities
In her womb....

I will still love her mother,
Even as you come out of the still
Young door, mother,
And harp up to the blooming storm...

Can you taste the hyathines,
Blooming in red on the front corner of the rented lawn;
They are a part of the unremembered, mother;
And already gone before the rented dawn,

But I love her still, mother,
Even though I no longer recall who I am,
The airliner is taking off, mother,
And I have to go now
Unto her....

Erin, in that translucent storm:
My face is a hideous mask of Greek tragedy, mother:
But I love her this day,

And the next....
Though that is all I am.....
That is all there is,
The supposition of the beautiful clairvoyant,
The breaking of the luxurious waves
Over to the exorbitant real-estate....

I cannot afford her, mother,
Where I am,
But I will write her again in these few words,
Before the finish line mother,
Where I have lost,

The triumphant men took her,
And I don’t have time to recoil, mother,
Though, do you suppose,
She is looking at us strangely, mother?

As if she might love us,
Together, for a little while....
Before un-relaxing Pentecost, mother....
She put us in the zoo,
For all the children to see,

And I cannot recall her name, mother,
Though, unfortunately, mother....
She is standing beside the door, mother,
And I must let her in....

Before she knocks....

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Poem Submitted: Friday, April 4, 2008

Poem Edited: Friday, April 4, 2008

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