Her Incontinent Love

I can hear the airplanes calling like grandmother from
Her graveyard,
As if tomorrow were Easter and she was getting ready to jump
Up in the middle of paper snowflakes and congratulate
Me now that I have a house;
But I wonder what she would say if she knew I was dreaming
About a working girl as rich as crepuscule,
Like a mermaid kept like a bobble in the backyard swimming pool,
Coming up after school with lips like roses over spilling
And capsizing the drunken yachts of my britches:
Now I don’t see her anymore, and I can’t conjure her up with
Any of my spirits: I think that I will love again, because that is what
I have been doing all of this for,
And I want all of my own children. Then at night in one of my two
Bedrooms I will have her, and she will say my name and mean me,
And I will give her the token for our offspring in the very humid
Banishment where we forget everything else
And he grows: he grows inside of her, the spitting image of myself,
The rich folklore of a youth climbing up her umbilical beanstalk;
And I will look through the transom of her black market eyes
And really wish I had something more, something priceless to trade
Her for this and all of her incontinent love.

by Robert Rorabeck

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