So Far Into Your Mother's Language Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sorry that I am imperfect and little known,
Sorry that we never meant and at least embraced between the
Forgotten classes we were misaligned towards:
Sweet Alma: we never shared lockers nearby where we were told
To walk in a line,
Though your sisters now go to high school just south of here;
And I have walked so far, drunkenly, to sleep atop a roof that
Almost touched yours;
As I found you again today- I brought you lunch, just like
You beckoned me, and I told you about the tattoo I dreamed of
Wanting;
And you said it would just be simpler if I got a picture of your
Face on my one good arm,
And the Virginsita or my mother on the other; and when I awaken
Tomorrow,
I will wait for you by the firelight of another same old day;
And I will pray for you in my same my inconspicuous way, muse of
My suburban grottos, until you come again to me:
And we sing together and make love underneath all the stars we
Can never reach,
Their roofs turning too far above our yawning heads; and then you
Will say to me something so quietly and so far into your mother’s
Language that I can never even be sure if I even truly heard.