The Arrowheads Of My Mother's Soft Hands Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bar me from the other satellites sounding
That Armageddon—and we will watch the
Horses glowing green,
Feeding of the grass taught of moonlight;
And your skin will crawl
Surrounded by those werewolves crowning
That ghostly knoll:
After your mother has died—
That land your father ploughed—when
The forest fire was the mountain’s flag,
And we spent all of our fireworks into her,
Trying to summon dragons so
We could pretend to have a chance at slaying
Them to become heroes bold and
Beautiful—
Yet the traffic left us—the Indians did not
Come again—hornets boiled over to make a pie
Of the earth
Until she coughed up the arrow heads my mother’s
Soft hands were meant to have found