Unbearable Ontologies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Its fun to speak of the gods
As if they were real,
And not something made up
For Halloween,
And blame them for taking her
Away upon the serpent’s
Crest undulating in the Possessing
Lights gowning the cemetery;
And not her Egyptian eyes,
The decadal senses who have
Forgotten you,
Easily like a fast meal she had in
A remote classroom before
She was fully formed,
Her breasts just stung by
Pubescent bees,
And understood what her
Gaze admired and leans into now,
They keystone of a hard knock sea,
Though she once thought
Of sitting beside you close to the Germanic fire;
Again, and again,
The pulsing womb a barb
That doesn’t break away,
Thus mortified and stung,
Leaving you in a cage of
Wanting lions undutifully educated,
Whose eyes are as sad as rain,
And as hungry as her eyes
Before they thought away
Along the serpentine avenues of forget;
Outside, the crooked trunks of
Cypress bend like a canopy for
A wide open bedroom,
The same as they would do
For any man,
And beyond them the cleft lip
Of the canal and the dunes
Where her flesh is warming the dusty
Marble of a crypt,
And he is there in his only form,
And laughing sweat,
Bending her like a smith,
With their bodies baking in a sawing kiln,
You cannot dispute the energies
Who leave you shackled to an
Unrealized form,
Though you search everywhere,
Contesting the proof of gods.