The Heaven To Which You Are My Queen Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If we walk together again tomorrow, Alma: where will we
Go while we hold hands and your two children
Are sleeping,
And your husband or whoever he is to you is out of work,
Like your father, Marcelino:
And I can only imagine what is was like growing up in
Guerrero Mexico:
I can only imagine all of the corn fields and the mountains filled
With otherworldly rattlesnakes;
And I cannot even count your gods, and all of this is just my failures
To believe,
But I still kissed the lips this evening of a broken Virgin of Guadalupe:
And I still have felt your fingers like silent birds on my
Throat,
And I am in love you: you are the most beautiful woman I have
Ever seen, whether or not you have ever taken a plane to Boston
Massachusetts:
I was not going to make fun of you for never being in an airplane:
I just wanted to brag that my mother had once been a pilot:
Or I just wanted something to talk about to keep you on the line,
For while I listen you all of the angels sing,
And life feels good, and the heaven to which you are my queen,
Almost believable.