The Creatures Of My Faith Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lighted as if in the cool lights of
A pieta
Of a church where my muse goes once or
Twice a year:
A voyeur in the jaundice perfume of the jasmine
She leaves,
Her body cooling itself underneath the jet streams of
Airplanes:
Returning herself to her husband that she doesn’t
Love,
And their apoplectic joy: their lost children
Nuzzling like ant infested roses into the armpits
Of their overgrown devotion,
While she sings songs to me in her sleep that I will
Never hear,
As she herself was lost in the higher slopes
Of the receding forests I had cultivated for her
Into the creatures of my faith,
Who danced all around her, igniting themselves off
Of her infectious fires of moonlight;
And swimming again into her in her sleep even while
Her sea and sky burned.