Quilt Of Séances Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The waves turn themselves green,
To help you feel better,
But they only end up reminding you of her
Birth stone,
And the trees she walked liberally under
Humming to the chanting of the Krishna’s free food:
But she was a meat eater all in all,
And a good one, which added to the
Luxury of her form she wore modestly in three dimensions:
Her lips added another, and they were all
I had room for:
The storage space of my memory filled up
By her lips,
By my dead aunt’s lamps,
And my grandmother’s quilt of séances-
They once touched my neck,
And as you can see I am quite done for:
The limpid tattoo of the penultimate female
Occupied by her silver tasseled phalanx of roman legionnaires,
She is now the burnished bride of the very
Same haplite who pricked the messiah’s ribs,
Who took the pine stick and stuck it in the
Bicycle’s silver spokes,
And afterwards shot Lorca, and buried him anonymously
In the navel between the sad hills of Spain;
But I do not love her, you understand,
Because I am full of little white lies who come out
Of me like fireflies when the sun is done cleaning the earth,
And she knows nothing of green;
Born in October, a domesticated witch,
Her birthstone is the semiprecious Opal....