Five Years Without A Kiss

Each mouth an open prayer—
lips, tongues, teeth their own flavor
and I’m the chemist probing the right mixture.

Long walks down crowded streets
find me stumbling into people:
men with perfectly heart shaped mouths
hungry for lipstick purse
when they notice me licking mine,
tongue in cheek.

Women with mouths they’ve forgotten
chew gum, blow into the universe,
stop in the middle of the street
to pull mirrors from jeans pockets.

Mine is the hand that unconsciously reaches out to help,
to ask for a hug, to beg for the beginning.

Every mouth it’s own love language,
lust’s first cousin; mouthwash, toothpicks,
tools of the trade.

Suddenly a man on the corner breaks into Hamlet
contemplating suicide, the handkerchief in Othello,
Iago’s un-kissed mouth whispering poison.

I’m the last one to stop and listen.
He notices me like a drunk man notices
his empty glass, gives a wink,
grabs me gently in his arms,
bends my body back like a C

but the kiss never comes.

Mary Weems