The Hidden Places Of The Other Words Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Okay, I’m finally eighteen and I’ve seen Alma’s eyes
Against the unregistered classes of the big trucks,
While the alligators wept and cleaned their wounds:
Then the might tortoises drank their glasses
While other girls I knew were looking for new jobs:
As she’s finally laid down with her brown man now,
The father of two children-
And how many times she has loved him, she can count
On both hands,
But she doesn’t need anymore machine that her body
Beautified by gold:
And when she looks into the mirror of her truck on the
Way to work,
At least she can be satisfied that it is paid for:
And she has done so well for being in the States for only
Seven years,
And she knows this sprawling city better than me,
Except for in the white suburban pools where I spent
The folklores of my truancy,
But even those are deluded now- while her birthday was
Last May, which was some other holiday in which I watched
Her blow out the candles on the cake
And make wishes for the hidden places of the other words
I could never breathe upon much less understand.