This is how it happens—he lifts
the dress above your head
and brings it down around
your hands. You become
a peacock, all feathers,
all lace. You breathe
deep, shrinking
your frame as he fastens
the eye-hook, zips up
the dress. Then, the shoes—crows’ feet—
and you are ready.
As you are presented, you realize
this event is on reverse:
the male, in flaming color,
wears black. You, in startling white, hope
to maintain one tradition: the free fall,
like the red-tailed hawk, when
the two of you, at last, meet
at the center of the sky, latch
your talons, and fall.