The Indian-Gifts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Her body was a glove that I shouldn’t have had:
I was too big to fit, but it felt so good,
And now it rains and I haven’t murdered anyone,
But my bones rattle like song birds to cats:
And the mountains rise up perpetually, and the seas fluctuate;
And it is all such a terrible thing,
And yet so much less frightening than the Indian-gifts
Of your body’s beautiful tributaries
That once dripped warbling over lips and throat and tongue.