The Crippled Author Of My Old Song Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Virgin of Guadalupe is also Maria Conception,
But they are both just another two
Splintered images of our Mother Mary:
Ave Maria sung through the cannibalistic dells of the
Andes,
All the brightly hooded fraternities licking their chops in
The kaleidoscope of that which is a heavenly sorority:
A heavy bosomed nunnery floating down and nourishing
The heavily inbred cities in the upper basins of
Peru:
Daughters looking just as beautiful as mothers, as beautiful
As girls I remember from high school:
The days too crawling up like spokes or ants of fire along
The greenish drapes that seem to plummet and
Rise through the full truths of the séances of done fore airplanes;
And so this is just where I climbed up to believe in her,
To get her out of my head and see her for real and all together
On the open palette of sky:
She drove by me early in the morning like a heavy chested ‘
Meteor,
And she wanted to serve me breakfast as if I had awakened from the
Bed of some motel, and this is what there was to eat
Downstairs in a really brilliant room:
And she comes every day if you want to see her, stepping outside
And burning; her body making the expensive movement
Of fireworks:
Then she is done and away to other gathering places of lost boys
Just at the next intersection or down the street:
Maybe her name is Diana: Maybe she can be water or trees
As well as light: I am sure she has a daughter pinwheel as she suckles
From the exposed lingerie right at her bosom:
Just as I am sure that those two, as well as her mothers,
Are far too beautiful for the crippled author of my old song.