To The Fireworks Of Her Name Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Her reams of brown skin spread out before me,
Like a picture book for everything lucky:
Because she has never know the venal sabotages of
A suburban housewife, nor
Any of her children: and the Alamo was capture by all of
The best of her ancestors,
Even while my parents have returned to Arizona and
Aren’t doing anything so good; but are good at surviving,
Like a beautiful butterfly who spends most of
Her life caught up in the tin confines of a stainless steal
Grotto of a trailer park of
An amusing estuary, while everything else fails,
And even the best of the angels tell lies to the warbling estuaries
Of the bromeliads who only come some times this way
Out of the armpits of air plants,
The way that even the best of stewardesses give up and finally
Find clear ground,
Sweating and panting in the deepest and sandiest of epicenters,
Like cats panting in heart or for milk,
Or for me to stretch out my charity, finally caving in
And admitting all of my beautiful faults to the fireworks of her name.