What was it? A reception. Where? A lawn,

and worshippers were waiting (some had cried),

and she emerged — a tiki-torchlit bride

breasting the dark in sibilant chiffon.

Hysteria tinged the air. The band was “on.”

Idol of wishes and her father’s pride,

she burned unearthly as if deified.

A fascination. A phenomenon.

It wasn’t liquor or the shifting light

that put a power where a girl had been.

As with possession, something from within

flared up all over her and that one night

she was Astarte in the sheath of youth.

Believe me. Don’t believe me. It’s the truth.