The Way To My Grave Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They had some powwow and they made a truce:
She has his initial tattooed on the brown web of her hand:
He used to beat her,
But it doesn’t matter: they held hands as they crossed the
Frontera together:
I have money and a house, but it doesn’t matter:
Her eyes look away, and she asked me not to tell her I love
Her;
And her brown skin is perfect, but my statue of the virgin
Fell and shattered,
Some bad luck, or an evil spell, while serpents curl
Like smoke in the bosque- the inevitable situations of life
Where the monsters win,
While brothers make love to sisters only to be thrown far
A field-
And now I will quit the fruiteria and find a job all by myself,
Or maybe I will write another novel in place of the child
We could have had if she didn’t have her period;
And it will carry her eyes and her perfume heavy on my senses
And all the way to my grave.