The Stamens Of Anarchists Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Indifferent wildflowers pullulated by the
Stamens of anarchists,
As everyday in the vastly empty schoolyards I
Hoped to touch you,
Across the soft algebras of Mexican tiles;
As I described your eyes while my thoughts drifted
Like mariposas, and I slept
Through the classes all strung out in the student
Parking lot
Until night came and the airplanes from underneath
Looked as if they were wearing their mothers’ jewelry;
And when I was fifteen,
Alma- you were eight and still figuring out for
Yourself in Guerrero, Mexico,
All the fables of the ghosts bred out of your volcanic
Earth,
Until you skipped like a stone well placed across the
Prairielands of these United States;
And the airplanes flew around your golden brow like
Doves finding dry land:
And all I’ve ever learned is how to kiss you as you
Hold my hand.