When she was conceived
On your thirtieth birthday your wife wore red—
matching, color pallet, the specific
scent coming from the underside of a breast,
and she kissed you without her glasses on
found herself splayed out on the bed, inviting
the curve of your cock inward,

and you are a generous lover, I know
a lushes madman, honey-lipped
the flush of your upper teeth, the
caress that drew me in
years later, or the soapy
intoxication of the skin at the side
of your throat,

she was conceived on your birthday, born
later in the blazing heat of August, your mouth
open wide, back bent upward, that sound
like the echoing of a drum inside the tiny
condo in Auburn, conceived with
celebration in mind, conceived with
shaking limbs and love spells.