August 14, 1982

Like a midwife of
my well-bred tiger,
volitile nonetheless
not entirely patient.

You wait on our night
of dubious celebration.
Under hot aqualine weight,
you affirm roars as waves

Of birth cry out. Bestial you howl,
stand in traffic— your angel gown
overleft from Halloween. You defy,

Divert, my dreaming drivers as
your hands ascend your skirts,
reveal underneath the plum—
no rose tint of demure silk.

Sometimes you play a slender siren.
I rememeber your impossible green
robe, its satin lines bending, trembling—
transforming in the wind.