Unamerican Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Mexican girls are so much prettier, if you can find
Them in their labyrinth of solitude the blue sky too tough to reach-
The blue sky that is never their eyes, and thank god;
Their narcissisms are quiet and as complex as ready fires; they have
Their own pageants, when they go out into the night loving those
Men who can never love them;
And I’ve felt them burning in my bones coming with the passion of
Metamorphosing butterflies; and they awaken on their bicycles
And strike right out- They have their honeymoons in the darkness,
And never have enough to say about them, as they put myself
All in a tangle around the bones of my wrist,
So all the song birds they keep in their adobe houses are for the weddings
Of their small daughters: They only drink beer on Sundays then,
To look pretty for the conflagrations who will never see them:
They are the small daughters of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and I wished
That I could know everyone;
And I am so happy their love for football is particularly unAmerican.