The Color Of Your Comely Blood Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I will get married and
Bare propitious children who will make
Sport of the sea,
And they will laugh at you and the way you
Once made beautiful flirtations with
My mind,
The way the sun winks like a glowing seizure
Down through parts of the forest;
And when you come with your walking stick
And breasts to pray at my grave under
The color of your comely blood,
They will swoop down from their tree forts
And beat you with sticks,
And kiln you with hot mud- cause you wasn’t
Their mother,
And you never was.