The Final Things Second Hand Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wounds don’t becalm: if anything, they are growing like
Calves:
The sea is in infancy of green, and Alma is smiling and laughing
In the exact middle of the fruiteria:
It seems as if I have gone away on a quest and found her there,
And made love to her repeatedly
While buying her things, though I do not know if she is
A glorious monster or the all-mother of my progeny:
I know that she says that she is no good,
While her eyes smoke golden brown over all of that skin diademed
By all of that jewelry:
All of the wishes that I have found or bought for her, and thus
Made real,
While all of the saints go marching over the sea; and I wonder if she
Is even at home, or how many rings she will be wearing tomorrow:
I wonder if she wonders how much her children really need her:
Or if they need her as much as I need her,
While the sea is changing its graces, and I have come by the final things
Second hand,
While all of the angels that I was fortunate enough to know are
Too busy weeping or were so fragile that they have already passed away.