Their Beds In Mexico Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Mobile of rum—this is how sleep comes on
A Monday night
Listening to the trucks and the disappearing shadows:
The children will get up from
Their beds in Mexico and dream of marionettes and
Ride the trains to find her—
Her parents who have fled to pick from the orchards
Of America—
And they following them like the wet afterbirth,
And the ashes of fireworks
Leading up the hills where the foxes sleep in either
The sunlight or the snowdrifts—
Into the churches where there are wounds in the blue windows
Looking out onto the campus I disappeared from
Fifteen years ago
As my father enjoys riding bicycles in Michigan—and my
Mother follows him:
And my mother follows him.