That They Were Not Mine Poem by Robert Rorabeck

That They Were Not Mine



Rained as fat as pregnant cats who’d sated on our
Mice,
And I stood and flirted with a little Mexican girl with eyes
As dark as thunderclouds over the parts of the sea
Forever estranged from humanity;
And she was only playing, and I took the knife and cleaved
The cabbage from its groves, the scuppernongs
From the vine:
And I looked into her Guerra conceived eyes, and didn’t
Look away so that she would believe me when I
Gave her flowers, and promised her that they were not mine.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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