The Swings Of My Kind But Embittering Enmity Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I didn’t touch her pubis:
There was no ceiling fan, and it happened
So fast,
It was like Easter never existed; but we certainly
Dressed down to get up again;
And there was no sky that the airplanes couldn’t
Reach,
While both my muses were bemused elsewhere
And it wouldn’t behoove them to read either of us,
How our bodies met softly like waves in
The ocean malls- They have known the ones;
They have skipped there on and off for days,
And the world has flooded up around us and carried
Us as soft as softball strangers
Nearer our graves in the first antechambers of morning,
Just before all the sadnesses of our faces can be read;
And she was doing this, she said, because she had to
Grow up:
Jessica had to grow up with that tattoo on the nape of
Her neck;
She let me touch her above the tree line of our body’s
Juxtaposed exegesis, but she would have rather
Been living with her mother and father;
And it was very sad, because I realized after that there
Was no chimney leading smoke up through the rains,
As if the passes had closed through the mountains;
Though I touched her sadly, she had never been my women;
And she would awaken into a world far more beautiful
Than my own- Would that all my veins had let up to roses
To offer her lips this once;
As if I had been allowed to return to those freshman,
And played the truer part of Romeo for this once time muse,
This satin entity that carried likewise on through
Her night,
And not once remembered the swings of my kind but embittering
Enmity.