The Greater Wrath Of A Mothering Soul

The bull is sleeping while the children retreat to the swings:
All summer, or all day long I’ve been touching myself,
But what has Kelly been doing, girl:
And the black faces emote amidst the groves of the plantation;
And the paper airplanes cluster to see just what is
A matter of fact;
And Gracie sleeps, wondering; and Elijah is wonderless
In a cocoon of rarified censes:
Then far away Mount Everest always flumes with the cataracts
Of
Apathetic romance;
The highest grandeur of the world, hermaphrodite,
Wonderful;
And I kick my heels up on the swings, and remember your kiss,
And curse and wonder in the strata where
You hide your gods in their in ground pools;
And it is ever strange to feel your body’s touch, unsanctified,
Classical and yet above allusion;
You belong in the places of knowledge, studied, sketched
Nudely and yet in the deeper philosophies and the
Quiet sort of pools I have yet imagined that you have really been;
While the tadpoles gurgle and your little daughter curls
Beneath you like a clutch of vines on a
The greater wrath of a mothering soul.

by Robert Rorabeck

Comments (1)

Thank you for writing this, Eddie. The best we can do now is to celebrate Kiyan's memory, and that's just what this poem does. Best wishes, Gina.