Kisses I Remember

My father kisses my mother on their 25th anniversary.
They stood behind the table
holding each other as they did
while they slept. Their faces pressed
together like dried flowers in a book.
Long ago, they bloomed.
April 1985

My last kiss.
I can still hear its echo disguised
as memory. One sound. Then
the void of all the years that followed.
Every kiss after that, hollow.
You asked me to leave her as you got dressed.
June 2001.

My best friend’s first kiss at Shenandoah Junior High.
Her face was covered by his,
I saw him release her hands
shortly after.
Girls are like that, they say
the opposite of what they mean.
January 1976.

A kiss I saw on TV
They bridged the gap toward
each other like magnets.
I wanted to be naked, like
they were. The lens closed in
on their moist lips just like I hoped it would.
March 1997.

A kiss from Judas
Every time we make love
I hear its sound, the kiss,
metallic like coins.
You ask me if I love you
and I say yes.
October 2008.

DQ 10.13.08

La Provençal

No longer a fan of French cuisine
I avoid my favorite restaurant.
I wouldn't know if the outside

tables have been folded or replaced
or if they still serve the hot crepes
covered in béchamel sauce.

Last time I dined there, Albertine,
the waitress who always recommends
the salmon béarnaise, gave me

the wonderful news that you were
seeing someone new and had just
given birth to a lively baby boy.

Can you believe my arrogance?
...to ask if she had any idea
what you named the child?

DQ 10/4/8