Robert Rorabeck

Bronze Star - 2,238 Points (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

The Roses Which Still Bare My Name - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Unicorns wounded on the road floating
Above the discos and orange parlors, like armless
Their outlawed horns like the perfect ice-cream cones;
Their goblins are road kill, and there is some kind of
Orchestra rising like gnats for two days over
The sink holes of ex-girlfriends before they
Disband like band members, like overweight boy scouts
Or Hitler’s youth given up on the mountain:
So many overpriced airplanes, Japanese Zeros,
Panzers in the flea markets:
Really, I stumbled upon a toy soldier show in old Lake
Worth; I ate a cow, and congratulated myself:
I stared at pregnant ants and their beggars in the relief
Of unborn bedrooms;
I nuzzled in the straw in the Eucharist of starless generals;
I fainted, and came to through the smelling salts of my own
And now my parents are home, and I have trapped myself
In a human body to go mad, but the village is still
Defending itself, the archers bristled in the cornfields and the
Tennis courts;
And I almost bought something, I almost defeated myself
Into the penumbras of your overpriced love;
But I am not so easily found and committed;
And there is yet so much more to be defeated in the colorful
Grooms of the sound;
And I am antique and pulling myself out of a race with
The waves,
And you can never love me, because that is how I made myself,
While even now the turtles are making love
Across the stretch-backed darkness corrugating I-95;
I have hidden myself so well, neither the egret nor the kite
Can find me, Erin;
Nor can you ever be allowed to find me, because I am not
I have crashed into the mangroves and the thousands of
Islands of the pet cemeteries and Indians of the
In a thousand pieces of indescribable cenotaph,
And the mailboxes are empty,
And the housewives are amputated in crepuscule,
And you are a perfectly beautiful woman,
Except that you have never bitten your lip in wonder,
Or had thoughts of summiting my shipwrecked mountain,
To find me grinning there like the remains of
A way post with the skeletons of the roses
Which still bare your name.

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, January 31, 2010

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