The Secrets That Her Children Made Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Ailing beauties taken at the cost of sherbet:
Lines at unsanctified weddings stretching around the block,
Yawning like colorless fireworks:
Girls with retainers tossing newspapers to drams of
Fishhooks on the docks:
Seagulls and pelicans plundering the waves for sardines
And plastic dolls:
Alma is happy when I shave, and when I meet her halfhazzardly
Scarred through these mornings:
When our cars and our bodies happen together for the refreshment
Of some besitos;
And I feel alright, and I lie and tell her that her body is
As voluptuous as a guitar- when she is nearer an aspen yawning
Up to the yellow dollar of sun
Sprinkling it with French Kisses in a harmonious glade
That the otters come to with their stolen bicycles and whisper
To the grasses as the dandelions and bluebells get laid:
The crickets and locus smothering over them
Like green and orange knights over their milk maids,
As my pallid fingers brush her brown temples which like
Symmetrical ovens surcease with their thoughts,
Giving off the tide pools and bread baskets
And languish in the secrets that her children made.