The Memories Of A House Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Let's give a ballpark figure when
I look into your eyes over New Mexico's desert—
Who truly was defeated in the Alamo?
I have a girl in my class who claims to be the
Great-great ought great granddaughter of William
Travis—or someone—
Forgetting about her, lets think about your
Ancestors, the mestizos who learned
Through rapine joy how to love
Without fanfare or much attention—
And your uncles, even now—how many of them
Doing landscaping beneath you, surrounded by
The seas that give fallacio to this peninsula—
And you were kind enough to say you loved me
How many times—without loving me,
Or thinking much about it, but coming to my bed
Because I brought you gold and could make love
To you for over an hour—
How your ancestors defeated her ancestors in
The bitter part of that war where some land was
Being annexed to something or someone—
But it was I who truly understood that it was
You who was being stolen—
And you were that prize disappearing,
Vanishing like something never truly given with
Everything I was hoping to be transformed into—
And you will awaken tomorrow
And the sunlight will fall upon you—
And the horses will run around you—
And your uncles will climb their ladders to pick
The highest citrus alongside the necks of the busied
Highways—but you will never have to think of
Me again—neither must you recline in a Pieta
For your children—you hold them right there before
You and they are not in any kind of danger—
And the light is soft and gentle—
Even though the memories of the houses you cannot
Remember are filled with hanged men.