Courting

Then everyone left for the circus without a word.
You leaned into me, whispering:
Do you think it’s appropriate, smiling at lions like this?
So I pulled you behind a corner while the others passed
And I kissed you hard on your grinning lips.
We clamored up to the attic, giggling,
And spent the afternoon among the dust and fragile relics.
Never mind the glittering and feats nor the caged beasts.

When everyone returned, sticky palmed
and sweet mouthed, we slipped out the backdoor
you donning a top hat, me, one white glove.
We arrived at the big top with its swirl and comotions.
Where the lion opened his mouth, a wicked flower, tame and slow.

You asked me, Is he lazy, or does he not know he's fierce?
I pointed to the stout ringmaster and giggled back:
Our dear father, Napoleon of Napoleons,
has spread his contagion of complex to the children.

But the children are all asleep, you said,
And we stifled our laughter with our hands
As we tugged each other up the stairs to bed,
Catching heavenly winks through the windows,
Stolen fire hoops and tightropes trailing in tow.