Nothing I Have Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Nothing I Have



I like to look at photos of pretty women
And their mothers,
And dream of their husbands as I hike in
Autumn’s blushing, to where there are couches
Hidden in these woods, and springs in broken
Jaws of igneous stones, the drool from
Withering memories, like faucets:
The sunken amusement parks where they can
No longer recall my unrequited bouquets, like
Couplets, the prenuptials I gave to them and
My sheepish grin: Where the furs stay green
For all holidays, and the draws with teeth of
Lightning-scarred trees line my cheeks like
Grandfathers: Those subtle-moonlit stones as slick
As wishes, and the blue passing by of a propitious
Lion: I know that she is my mother, or one day soon
Will become her, but now I should not speak of such
Transformations; for the elk are making paths to
Suite the aspens’ colonnade, the conspicuous wind
Rushes through with so little to say, but rushes in
The dawning gloom, and the stars go as sisters
In the wall-less room, go as sisters far away;
And I have said the things I might wish upon
Until I am still, and stand alone save for the ghosts
Tattered and rippling beyond the forest’s perception;
But what have I really had to say to her, that is enough?
Nothing I have written should be spoken out loud,
For it is the failure of a stone wall the horde is already
Across, and I have watched the well-mannered barbarians
Take her far away from me,
And I lower my head with its sunken birth-marks,
And weep, for nothing I have is good enough for her.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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