Voracious Gravity Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am thankful that cenotaphs don’t need to be fed,
So I can just lie quietly next to my vanished love
And love her quietly in the wormy bed:
And the nights wake up and trumpet, sounding the
Invasions of a fresh kill;
And the countries move in- the boys in blue leaping,
Leaping,
Little wicks as jubilant as steely flowers in their
Thorns-
The entire armada amassed before her bed and holding
Conquest,
Their heads of state enjoying a banquet over her
Out of doors senses,
As beneath her shoulders the lesbians socialize like
Jaundice goldfish in the communal pool;
And I should have told her to get out when she could,
But I was just the little man in the deep end of the pool;
And when her weapons woke up and realized
They tried to take over death, or they just tried on new
Summer dresses in the changing room of her last breath,
Until she was truly petrified and made to stay there
In her wonderful new home,
While her friends and family stood in line to view her
As unlucky as the corpse end of a wish-bone:
Like a line of tourists waiting for a ride that they would
All have to pay,
Knowing, sadly relishing, that they took would become
Objectified and made to lie there too, just
Like her someday,
While the orange groves wept leaves of salty lips under
The garish leaps of airplanes the only thing which this
Voracious gravity seemed to have no affect.