that a little boy might plop with a smack on
his mother’s face
as he holds it firmly between two, small, sweaty hands.
His kiss is not as
smooth and creamy as
home-made, vanilla bean ice cream, hand-cranked on the back porch on a hot Sunday afternoon.
Yet his kiss is sweeter than any smile he ever gave his mother.
His kisses spill from his tongue
like plump blueberries
rolling lazily down a smooth, pale body
to an easy resting place
nestling into curves of sweaty flesh.
His kisses are not the same as ripe blueberries
plucked from bushes in the field on a summer’s day
piled into a large, red ceramic bowl sitting on the kitchen table
and waiting to be plopped into a moist, open mouth.
No, his kisses are not sweet and light as that.
His kisses are rich, dark, dangerous
and tainted with the sweetmeat of another.
He kisses her with cuntbreath oozing from his bruised lips.
She takes this kiss, savors the smell of musk
and the thick, pungent taste of wet, fallen, fermenting leaves.
© Birdstory Publications, 2005