The Virgin Of Guadalupe Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I hear the moon calling from the
Throat of a wolf,
Like a pubescent throat ululating from its spitooned horn:
While I was up on some boy’s roof in an
Arm chair:
Not praying to any god, but spending my fireworks
And growing naked:
Soon I might swim in the canal all the way to the little girl
Who lives in the palmettos:
I might get there, a diminutive conquistador, and show her
Pictures of yourself: Alma:
Like a lapping green zoetrope in the nest of my palms:
If I even knew you in high school:
If I could call you the way that the tender trainers call the
Long remembered elephants home,
The supple gargantuan turned into the dancers of spiders webs:
I would caress you and get into your car:
I would wrap my fingers around yours like a crèche for
The Virgin of Guadalupe:
I would take you out to lunch. I would ask you to go bowling,
But you would say no.