The Rood Of The Resurrection Poem Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I will look at you from here
Where I am broken, where I don’t belong
Literally across the world
From our vanished paradise—
Where, some three years ago now
I made love to you some sixty times
Underneath the primary colored
Helicopters and
Airplanes
Everyone one of them with their own paisley
Stewardesses—
But you don’t have to know about them,
Because you never went to school in America—
But you became a citizen.
I was supposed to help you,
But we just made love in my bed before
Going to work in the fruiteria—
Now my Chinese wife is pregnant again—
And my life continues like a bottle rocket upside down
In an aquarium—
This scarred exegisis, resurrect to be like a lizard
Basking underneath of your pyramids—
I drink white wine left over from our
Wedding two years ago—
Fifty proof wine, unlike anything
They have in America:
It helps me to see you again,
Puta—delinquent muse who never truly saw me—
See me now resplendent in my anonymity—
A Christmas arcade:
I am the tree you cut down underneath the moon
Only to become the rood of the resurrection poem.