Wet And Yielding Clay Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If my body warms in the scars of my pools,
It means I am going there-
Barefoot, without cars:
Going to the underbellies of my childhood, going to see
Blonde hair,
Where I keep my stolen bicycles above the refrigerator,
Where my mother is young and plays like supple instrument
Behind the beaded curtains of my father’s hands;
Going to go where I’ve never yet been up a mountain
Except for straddled to my father’s back:
Look here, America is younger, and all of my classmates
And peers are younger and not yet ready to accumulate
Into a high school which will affect me
Intrinsically: they have not yet seen the beautiful herons mugging
Above the sleeping buses that I will see:
And I will see Sharon putting her hands on the field,
Her eyes so cruel; and it will yield to her- and I will yield
Until she peels and zooms away;
And I am going where I have yet to be Sharon’s wet, and yielding
Clay.