written By
Read to your daughter
from the book of counted kisses,
one poem for each pink-pebble toe,
soft lips on the knuckles
of clenched baby fists.
Lips pressed, closed tight
against raging fevers,
against tearstained cheeks,
against goldfish funerals.
Remember the early chapters
when kisses were new,
yourself against a chill mirror,
the clammy back of your hand,
the cotton give of a pillow.
The gifts of young love
surprising the back of your knee,
your nape below a chignon,
sizzling the nerves
in the palm of your hand
in the dark of the theater
on a Sunday afternoon.
Pages dog-eared with memory:
the kiss from your father,
a brusque bearded brush
against your unguarded temple,
the one on your unfettered hand
in your hospital bed.
The woman whose vowel-laden name
dances just out of memory’s reach,
skin glowing as she bussed
your blushing cheek
with French elegance,
a whisper of lips against down.
