Of Her Hungering Dish Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have a book of all of your shoulders—
And you do not remember who I am—But
Won't the dolphins surrender to the sun—
Evaporations of the merry-go-round of
Your mothering shoulders—
Until all of the day is cradled in the night of
Those mountains,
And the magnificent spins—a world of spiders in
Their equinox—and other things I do not
Wish to comprehend—I can hear a muse putting
Her fingers in the kiln to
Retrieve her children—they are already something
I haven't knocked—
And the sun blooms in its kaleidoscope of knuckles,
Another easy if insouciant wish—
They day is a pinwheel of airplanes and arrowheads—
Another soldier goes dying in the amusing waves
Of her hungering dish-