The Stories Of What Will Happen Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Filling up the gas tanks of your bright eyes-
Can’t you tell we’re in love,
Or other things I don’t know- I haven’t
Yet thought of,
As the sky swells as it does, over the amphitheatres
Where the gathered there are
As wildflowers blown in the séances of
A spring of airplanes-
Becoming habitual, as fingers and rings-
Where you crossed the mountains, feet stubbed by
Fossils- and your mother crossed alone,
Almost becoming a cenotaph of a housewife,
But came a long ways to see her daughters again,
Underneath the stars and their predictable plan:
Came into the numb sanctuaries where I write
Floridly for her daughter,
Strange songs in a tongue she will never have to
Hear spill- the stories of what will happen tomorrow
That yet have to be real.