Whose Afterbirths Are Rainbows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Another anthem without the girls:
Here is the down trodden making love to the
Blistered leaves,
In a cathedral of ant lions that the sky presumes
Above,
The buses having turned around:
The butterflies, they are in Mexico, being stolen
But multiplying- the words work for and
Figure out themselves, against the suppliant
Branches:
Pull them back and find, marble arcades,
And carports where laundry spins, and toads
Sing to the clouds, with mottled throats
And spotted bellies: they sing there up to the
Curtains whose afterbirths are rainbows,
But not unicorns come to them,
And the housewives fold up the clothes for
Themselves:
Done praying, they go inside, and wait for their
Children to approach them.