Transformed

September 28, 2019

Her voice whispered your name and you felt transformed. Remember that? In the street when it started to snow, the big flakes melting on the collar of her coat. Standing so close together, she set you on fire, her breath smoking in the icy air, and her lips soft on yours, and her nose cold against your cheek – you were dancing on the tip of her tongue, remember? So close, the crease of her hipbone pressed, grinding on tumescence. And you glimpsed silent, teasing laughter in her eyes…

For Diane

September 15, 2019

Diane
your buttocks
fill my
hands
while your tongue
greets mine
seeking…

She kisses my cock

September 1, 2019

She kisses my cock:
chaste little kisses
that stir the blood;
bare purity in those parted lips,
enveloping shadows,
sweet and slow and wandering:
the kisses of a saint,
providing sweet sensation
and a solemn thrill,
kiss, kissing my cock
until I’m finally still.

IX

You wake me,
Part my thighs, and kiss me.
I give you the dew
Of the first morning of the world.

Kenneth Rexrothe

Lips touching lips

August 10, 2019

A single kiss can bruise your soul –

a man slaughters a goat

March 28, 2019

In my earliest memory, a man slaughters a goat in my bathroom. In Rabat, I am nameless, another Moroccan girl to be looked at but not seen. When goats cry, it sounds just like a baby. I couldn’t list all the terrible things we do to one another.  I remember the goat kicking out, frantic. The shattered mirror. The stumbled prayer. I was sick every visit: my stomach heaving dirty water. I would cry and everyone else would tsk, murmur American. Once, I kissed someone and I’m afraid it ruined the world. I’ve learned that it’s not what you do with the knife — it’s how you hold it after. But how do you hold something like that? Something that never stops baring its teeth; a voiceless dog, all bite, no bark. I remember very clearly that I never saw any blood. Honestly, I wouldn’t even know what to do with a knife. I didn’t even know what to do with that mouth.

Yasmin Belkhyr
Surah Al-Fatiha,
Bonelight

to kiss and stroke

January 31, 2019

Making love in the afternoon is completely different in summer and winter. To begin as the afternoon light is fading, to wake up, warm and heavy, when it is completely dark, to kiss and stroke the shared invisible body, to leave the person you love half asleep while
you go and open wine…

Jeanette Winterson
Why I Adore the Night

This is how you keep her

January 12, 2019

Kiss her. Slowly, take your time, there’s no place you’d rather be.

Kiss her but not like you’re waiting for something else, like your hands beneath her shirt or her skirt or tangled up in her bra straps. Nothing like that.

Kiss her like you’ve forgotten any other mouth that your mouth has ever touched.

Kiss her with a curious childish delight. Laugh into her mouth, inhale her sighs. Kiss her until she moans.

Kiss her with her face in your hands. Or your hands in her hair. Or pulling her closer at the waist.

Kiss her like you want to take her dancing. Like you want to spin her into an open arena and watch her look at you like you’re the brightest thing she’s ever seen.

Kiss her like she’s the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. Take your time.

Kiss her like the first and only piece of chocolate you’re ever going to taste. Kiss her until she forgets how to count.

Kiss her stupid.

Kiss her silent. Come away, ask her what 2+2 is and listen to her say your name in answer.

Azra Tabassum

Mistletoe

December 25, 2018

Sitting under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
One last candle burning low,
All the sleepy dancers gone,
Just one candle burning on,
Shadows lurking everywhere:
Some one came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go
Nodding under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,
Stooped in the still and shadowy air
Lips unseen — and kissed me there.

Sitting under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
One last candle burning low,
All the sleepy dancers gone,
Just one candle burning on,
Shadows lurking everywhere:
Some one came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go
Nodding under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,
Stooped in the still and shadowy air
Lips unseen—and kissed me there.

Walter De La Mare

Poetry

December 10, 2018

Poetry is a private kiss provocatively exchanged in a public space.

K. Satchidanandan
The Kiss
included in The Mighty Stream, poems in celibration of Martin Luther King eds. Carolyn Forché and Jackie Kay