The Windows Of The Women Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Windows Of The Women



Broken into the windows of the women that
Are so open hearted,
They wished, they hoped
That we would condone them—and open them
Like tourists departing a graveyard to arrive at
Disney World
So swift and thwarted:
But I have seen the islands: I have seen the Keys
And they have birthed before us,
All bended bowed and subtled kneed:
And I have almost wished to kiss you,
Though my open throat had been so filled with
Roses and the day and the night so
Filled—filled with
Their sweep supposed,
And so this midnight burns in seething junctions—
Even in my ghosts have to sell bottle rockets
from their primal decompositions—
I will be alright for another mile or two:
I will carry my own death’s head to the picnics of your
Graveyards,
Even if we have to stutter our own time or two—even
If our own fiction numbers are rubbed off—
At least it will look pretty
A time or two
As the rainbows in their own tennis courts—
And then, eventually,
Even their own numbers have to fade—as the ribbons
shed off their near perfect elbows—
As in a ribbon in her own dream of spider webs—
And this becomes my lesser know dream in her European
Fiction—
It yet proves that my own shadows can dance, perpetually
And alone in an unseemly ballroom of their own
Benediction.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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