When he kissed her first she
wasn’t looking;
it wasn’t fair, but it was
quite enchanting;
the softest brush of a moth’s wing
under the curve of her jaw-bone.
With his finger.
His teasing eyes grew bright with
kisses,
set them in her spiky hair,
dancing, gold.
He keeps his kisses in such funny
places...
they jostle in the corners of his
smile,
they tangle up his voice and
tumble out and
run about the gossiping,
those cricket spins and hockey wins,
the laughing jibes, the discos
and the ever-dying car...
“Ready, kid?”
He tucks
a tiny kiss under her collar -
with his hand, secret;
and straightening, gentle,
another two or three
go scaling down his singing
shadow...
and softly hide beneath her ear.
They’re everywhere!
The man seems made of kisses -
bubbling in his jerkin, brushing
her,
fizzing on his happiness,
tickling his nose.
“See you later,” (for me) but
turns to smile at him;
and he...
A hundred million kisses fountain
in the air,
cover her
as he grows quiet and still,
catches his breath;
a hundred million kisses...
“Have a nice time...”
How inadequate.
St. Valentine’s eve:
tonight he will kiss
my daughter;
and she, unaccountably, will think
it is
the first time...
(February,
1987)
