The Only Thing That Will Ever Lie Buried Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It is strange that my old teacher has just
Left my house,
And commented congratulating on all the little things
I have done to spruce up this place for
Alma:
That I have bought this house for her and turned it into
A grotto for our Lady of Guadalupe,
And I have dreams at night now of a sixteen year old leaving the
Streets of Guerrero,
Pregnant with her son Michael, traveling through the bastilles of
Forests,
And the deciduous mangroves ululating with fat-winged
Butterflies and pig-headed conquistadors
Or in the very least their cenotaphs:
But this brown girl is in another world, resting her head beside
The heads of her children on the other side of the highway,
While I am tucked in between the waves,
And the airplanes roar like gentlemanly beasts;
And now I think that I am in a graveyard where I am the only
Thing that will ever lie buried.