Wounded In A Pretty Forest Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wounded in a pretty forest,
The last of the bravest knights falls—
In a dry country without any lights—
The same place the last of
The ferris wheels moved away from
So many years ago,
Forgetting her birthday,
And how their light used to dance in
Her hair—
While other minds got wound up,
The decapitated heads in the witch's tree—
The knight on his knees prayed most
Jingoistically
For the mermaid to dissolve his problems
Right into the very sea—
And she came at midnight and
Took his head,
And threw him there, as he flew through
The aloe's bled—he watched my mother
Washing clothes in the carport before
My second sister was born,
While the frogs were serenading her,
Never realizing they had not yet taken their
Ultimate form—
And so he found himself swimming in
The banyans at night until his last girlfriend
Kissed him at took him a flight—
For it just so happened that she was a wayward
Kite—fashioned out of the geometries of
Grief,
She led him to the fairy reef,
Where the cup he was looking for was glowing in
A coral fjord guarded by a water snake as
Big as a board—
Who consented to let him taste the salted beef,
Just so long as he promised him one look
At the thief who was willing to steal the promises of
The eyes from his lord.