Of Her Graveyards Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Returning to me all of the stars from their
Games of baseball—
As the higher basins emulate the laminations that
Our mothers have keeping to themselves
In the apiaries—in the bee hives—
And all of their other rotten places
Where they pretend to grow fruit—and there is,
Otherwise,
The very same echoes of other men—
And the cars sound off like bottle rockets in
The middle of the night—
And you keep the playgrounds of your very own
Saddles pegged to your classrooms—
Until all of this is abundantly in remiss—through
The cold of everywhere in the early mornings—
Until, even before sleep, I can hear the airplanes
Touching down—
Pretending to play with themselves in a game of
Baseball—until all of the lamplights close—
And the end of anywhere accounts to the flight
Paths of the luck dragons—
As the bottle rockets are sure to misfire—
And then there is a sunny winter somewhere over
Her shoulder—just as the stewardesses are
Turning around-
And another school year seems to be over forever—
And forever—with her eyes expecting the fires
In the night—and the moon continuing to
Shadow herself by the shoulders over the own imaginations
Of her graveyards…