Taking From Our Open Hands Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The passersby who saws us said of us that whoever
Made us do not live here anymore,
Because our house was humbled without a roof, letting in the elements
A bed of many seasons leaves,
And sometimes wolves- a tenement of witches for when they were
On their way,
But sometimes feral strawberries, and boys with birthmarks:
And it was a beautiful place to be torn down with you, like wall of
Tumbled stanzas
Beneath the soft green witchcraft of those forgotten plates:
The dragons who’d lived there defeated as beautiful decorations for
Girls who still never could belong to those princess:
And you and I both suffering our final metamorphosis some time ago,
Not even forget-me-nots anymore, as the river as superficial
As unspoken lace crept through the green tufts and then away:
And the little footprints who gathered there in thirst séances,
With the little brown souls, the offspring of forgotten creatures who we
Once fed our love to, their hungry mouths taking from our open hands.