The Tears She Sheds For Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Alma’s man carries good witchcraft like a saber-
His weapon haunts my wounds for a little while
As I die,
As the numbers of airplanes fly and then vanish in the sky:
Her uncle, leaving for Mexico,
Says that I can never have her as long as he has her:
And I can pay $1,000 dollars for good
Witchcraft;
But I have Alma anyways- and all of these good scars,
The ocean crafts of loneliness,
The iconoclast arachnids in my veins- and words that
I cannot know, singing to her over the sky:
I empty my bow- my love descents into an empty fire:
And I swear to her as a disappear that the entire
Sea is afire, burning with the tears she sheds of me.