The Greater Wrath Of A Mothering Soul Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The bull is sleeping while the children retreat to the swings:
All summer, or all day long I’ve been touching myself,
But what has Kelly been doing, girl:
And the black faces emote amidst the groves of the plantation;
And the paper airplanes cluster to see just what is
A matter of fact;
And Gracie sleeps, wondering; and Elijah is wonderless
In a cocoon of rarified censes:
Then far away Mount Everest always flumes with the cataracts
Of
Apathetic romance;
The highest grandeur of the world, hermaphrodite,
Wonderful;
And I kick my heels up on the swings, and remember your kiss,
And curse and wonder in the strata where
You hide your gods in their in ground pools;
And it is ever strange to feel your body’s touch, unsanctified,
Classical and yet above allusion;
You belong in the places of knowledge, studied, sketched
Nudely and yet in the deeper philosophies and the
Quiet sort of pools I have yet imagined that you have really been;
While the tadpoles gurgle and your little daughter curls
Beneath you like a clutch of vines on a
The greater wrath of a mothering soul.