Theatres Of War Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am not afraid of you because I have been sleeping
By myself for so long,
Listening to the wisdom of serpents and masturbating;
And you cannot save me
Even if you own a gold mine, because I have tasted lips that
Are golden brown,
As I have fed her lips lunch every work day and Saturdays too-
And I have thought of names of our children
Even while the airplanes were touching down, and I am
Going to buy her a bicycle:
Now the trees grow tall: they grow very, very tall,
And there is no use gossiping about them, because they hear
Everything- around the water cooler and the drinking fountain:
In those spaces where our eyes meet and make love,
Alma, and tell each other the very things that you are too
Afraid to tell me:
Your family will love you anyways, Alma, but not as I love you:
My education comes by the slender ways of the highways of
Your bluest jeans;
And I am here right now kissing the lips of the Virgin of
Guadalupe,
Because I have promised my gifts to her, and asked her to keep
You and your children safe,
But to be given to me as gifts; and I love you, and I will give
You the passenger seat:
I will give you all of my blood and scars, if you will keep beside
Me and gather up all of my loneliness just as the most faithful
Of lighthouses gathers up all of her navies until the
Nights are closed and there are no more
Theatres of war.