The Child Of Her Unfamiliar Seed Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I take another shot,
As I mean to lay out an entire chorus line of
Cheap girls tonight-
I keep cramming Baudelaire, trying to figure out
How he grew such beautiful gardens from
Corpses; my attempts are awful,
And I can’t wait for Halloween to truly worship
The pantheisms of her mountains,
To hide my scars from her in the far corner of the
Room scribbling trees:
I daydream with devils that she knows this, that she
Reads the creases of my seams,
That her mind happens upon my soul while nursing
The child of her unfamiliar seed:
And oh, I love her: I love her, lost in the deepening
Tide, the lifeguard caressing the foreplays
Of other familiar barmaids; and it is the very bitter
End for me:
She is driving away in her car. The children, having discovered
The treasure, pile into her back seat smelling like
Sea salt and spikenard- and they go this way through the
Rich tunnels dynamited, blasted into mountains,
And I am left with Baudelaire, swimming like a curse,
Tipping back his glass and laughing at me in the same motion,
Findinf it so easy to proceed comfortably floating in his
Spotless immortality in the same instant which I can
No longer survive.