Survival Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Eager young repartees in the sand;
In the surf up to her ankles
Counting what the angels should have
Skipped across the bay-
No more sangria, no more friends
My aunt is dead for maybe seven years a
Tourist in limbo,
Watching all the pretty colors and the
Dwarfs,
Believe even while fainting that I could
Defeat them all maybe by myself
Or with a paper sack of
Dried seahorses;
But no one calls my bluff, no one calls
At all,
The voices echo the valentines spent on lovers
With sweet faces many high school ago
Who were not likewise infatuated;
This is how it must feel to know survival,
The kind generosity of dumb horses peppering
The fallow valley with steaming stuff,
And all the other words that are allusions
To the desire of her warm candidacy:
I know if I could hold her hand forever and feed
Her strawberries than all these other deaths
Would turn small
And amusing; and all of our children would
Follow after our ceremonies, like echoes filling up
For awhile a glass, a bay,
A high school hallway shouting for the joy
Of every heart’s needs for survival.