Nothing At All To Prove Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I can’t breathe around you:
This fishbowl is a nightmare that I haven’t
Been going, but around and around
You caracoling, mouthing off a fish spell:
Diana,
Diana- The mountains are yours. The streams
That fall down from the mountains are yours.
These words that pattern mutely from my lips are
The dying children you will never feel leaving
Your womb like jugular tarpon;
Like bright and unabashed news revving its
Reveling engines out of the carport of absolute
Sunlight,
Like liquor, like unrequited housewives so burned
By seamless shopping that they have nothing-
Nothing at all to prove.