On Her Amber Body Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I pay the toll for my artwork with the lucidity of these crimes,
The cauldrons gurgle for their witches,
And the city diademed in centerfolds spins on an axis twinkling for
Christmas;
And we all pirouette, both man and beast,
While the twinkling creatures rise and flutter and children
Are birthed to their weeping mothers.
My fingernails are dirty, and I have spent my work week staring at
Pretty Mexicans; and America is more beautiful because
She is starving: the middle class is jaundiced, and they are always moving out
Or being forced out;
And I couldn’t care so much where they are going; I think of her hair
As dark as it is red, like the witchcraft of sacrificial maize:
And I want to stare forever into her eyes, and on her amber body graze.