Prelude to a First Kiss When Love Is Meaningless
Even the moon, aloof, maidenly, and cold,
has pushed away her virginal veil
and allowed men to explore her.
Like her --
or like she was before 1969 -- I'm not frigid, just scared, cold
when I'm alone in bed dreaming not of Love that leads to a wedding veil,
two-point-five children and a prefabricated home,
but of the warmth that comes with sharing a worn couch,
Army of Darkness,
and mugs of tea. The moon is still in the heavens, floating soft in darkness;
she was not disowned for her boldness, nor would Dad banish me from his home,
but I can imagine his face, stern on his Lay-Z-Boy beside our old couch,
his orbicularis oris and oculi conspiring to form a glare
at the tongue-pierced, dyed-blond boy I've brought for him
to meet. If I believed in God
I'd worry about what He thought, too, but I believe in God
the way I believe in Love -- I don't, but I'd like to. Which is why I'll glare
at the dyed-blond boy, say nothing, and wonder what will happen when I kiss him.
Previously published in Departure:GNV Issue 15/16, Spring 2003.