Horrible Child Throughout The Snows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

At night aren’t you a god of snowbells?
Don’t you practice your paper crafts with wine
And cheese,
A little teacher of the northern hemisphere
Deeply in love with your husband-
I don’t know anything about married life, but
Yours must be great-
Your indescribable eyes so far away that I don’t
Even try,
But you should be proud that you are that much
Closer to airplanes.
Right out front of me the traffic goes leaping all
Day,
But what does it know of your coming winter?
What does it have to say,
And so where is it really going- I figure that I
Want to die by that little part of you that is Indian,
Because maybe you are just about thinking of
Me,
Or otherwise I am not real, and my brown eyes
Are the only thing about my sadness which isn’t
Scarred- Still young and ironic,
I want to put on miracle plays beneath your house,
And let you shoot me full of turtle dove arrows-
I want to be scarred by hail and so unsalable that
I just sit and lick my wounds in the back corner
Of your miracle shop,
Shrunken like a cannibal’s head, so that you can pick
Me up and coo to me nursery rhymes along with your
Daughter,
And share with her your milky twins, the little roman
Crests I guess you know,
And look up into your eyes and become your horrible
Child throughout the snows.