My Very Own Alma Poem by Robert Rorabeck

At the moment of existence, drunkenness- and all of the lights
Bleeding away,
Queasily, like in an office of newborns and coral snakes:
And then I get into her car- Alma’s car- and I see the child seat
In the back seat, and if I look into the mirror, I would
See all of my scars- and it seems like a novel I’ve already written;
But it seems miles away,
As if I were reaching up to feel the purring beliefs of airplanes:
They pregnant themselves with the dreams of stewardesses,
And the weathers hard and really rotten over the stately campuses of
Our America:
And I myself dreaming of doing good art, and trying to pull it up
Like new found preciousness from the gardens of scree,
With the lighthouse at the summit calling down:
As if I could see her naked in her boudoir kissing the donkeys of
The three wise men, bare-chested and expecting me:
As she made love in Mexico and then grew tantalizing wings just
Before me; and then wretched herself from my soul:
As if a songbird making a jailbreak from my ribcage: and then nothing
Else to do, but stagger and starve on my old blood, as my very own
Alma flew away.