Robert Rorabeck Poems

I am married—married. Let
Sunshine fall upon a waterfall,
And let the otters play in her cerulean bosom
That sometimes flashes like a spear
...

Child in your arms: grown man in your arms,
Mother—made of topaz
And living outside of a church in
New Mexico—
...

Rhinoceros coming into his own,
Rising like the lilacs in the carport—
Does he have a favorite color,
As the little boy climbs the orange tree
...

Child, you are lost and you don't
Wish for me to find you—climbing up through the
Strange spinsters of the night—
Looking for apples in the arboreal bosom—
...

Child, you are lost and you don’t
Wish for me to find youâ€"climbing up through the
Strange spinsters of the nightâ€"
Looking for apples in the arboreal bosomâ€"
...

My mother doesn't play baseball:
She does the laundry—her eyes follow all of the heavens
The trails my father left across the
Rebar and sycophantic toads to go picking with
...

Pistils blooming like pop-guns, like
Party favors—
The sky explodes over the horses: it riles
And blooms in cartels of witches.
...

Pretty as a child in the
Throes of truancy—tumbling down hill
With lilacs in her hair and the dogs following her:
Just a succession of paper wings
...

How do you look here—colluding in your telekinesis
While your grandmother is sleeping—
Dreaming in a bed which pretends to be spread across
All of Africa:
...

New remedy of your brushworks over the soft
Cheeks of a tourist town
Where everyone lives in a cabin and keeps postcards
Of wolves:
...