Extraordinary Machine Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Preparations for warmth by wood:
There she is in the little cabin,
Smiling I suppose,
But her back is turned-
The gestalt of the cold woods
Come into sleep on the floor:
Molecular spindles strung out
And snoring,
A female poet from another planet,
A fine aberration-
Powder burns on her hands:
She writes words by firing guns:
Poof bang!
The natives run,
Though soon she captures their worship-
Tentatively, I step a little creepy step,
Which leads to another:
I want to make love to her,
As I can see the powdery slopes
Her breast mounds rising,
The areolas stretching like inflating balloons:
The suckle and nip of wolves,
Tiny worlds on each nipple not known to me:
I want to be hired
To pluck and suckle them like grapes,
To pick the spilt food off the floor
And eat every crumb;
But what gifts do I have to offer up:
My unpublished hands are too juvenile
To buy her charity,
My face too careworn from mother-worship,
And if I proceed across the border,
The Martians will take away all I know,
And hang me out before her ancestry
Like a distraught poltergeist verging on Messiah;
This is what I should do,
But stand there watching the long shadows
In a vanguard of flickering foreplay
Across her pinkish napes,
Her shoulder blades the careless knifes
Bared priceless in the jumping lights.