Affection for Kissing

Winter cold on the breath, tongue of mint,
mouth of an angel when I kissed him,
soft as cotton, white as wings, pure as heaven.
Kissing him with my hands in his hair, 
snow falling outside the car, and he traced 
my clavicle with the bare edges of his fingers, 
made me gasp out loud.

The first boy I ever kissed threw my Grade Twelve
English Literature book on the ground when I said,
I like you, and took me up (awkwardly), held me close,
kissed me with a forever unequaled passion,
a forever unequaled desire, kissed me with everything
he had ever been and kissed with everything
he believed he could be and then backed away
tripping slightly on my English Lit. book,
his hands at his sides and said, I like you too.

Kissing outside the Rechall, a bar in Yellowknife,
with the aurora borealis flickering above our heads,
waves of purple, red and green dancing inside
our mouths, flirting over our tongues, thin layers
of frost escaping with every shallow breath.

Snow kissing after making angels with legs and arms spread,
and ice particles everywhere and toques askew,
and he was over me suddenly, smiling, dimpled cheeks,
mirth in his eyes and Christmas carols being sung
a few blocks north, and he tasted like a candy cane.

The last time I was kissing — it was Salah in Seattle,
beautiful Moroccan with tight, wound-up, black curls,
and before I left Washington he gave me a wooden turtle
with a compass in its shell, Come back and find me,
he said and I kissed him one last time.  He still had apple
tea lingering on his lips and his eyes were sad 
when I pulled away from him, but his mouth
looked full, round and pink; it looked satisfied.

_____________________________

Kissing is good; it should be a national, Canadian, 
past-time right along with hockey.  It should be 
to Canadians what our long underwear is, completely
necessary.  We should greet one another with kisses;
we should reach our hands around to the back of the neck
and kiss with mouths parted and pink tongues
glistening from dark chocolate cherry cordials.

Canadians should kiss in canoes; Canadians should kiss
in canoes while paddling backwards; Canadians should kiss
in canoes while paddling backwards through a rain storm.
Canadians should kiss in canoes while paddling backwards
through a rain storm, learning Dogrib, with their noses cold,
fingers frozen, and their life jackets forgotten on shore.
That way they will kiss with worry.  That way they will kiss 
with tight, pursed lips, taste of autumn rain against 
their mouths, and Dogrib whistling through their breath. 
Then when we, Canadians, pull away from one another, 
we could say, Thank you, in Dogrib.  We could say, Mahsi cho.

Canadian men kiss with gentleness, with fervor,
they kiss with abandon, with soft mouths,
and hard hands, calluses on their palms
running over the soft, warm flesh of your back,
and they push you against the wall roughly,
smelling of Labatts Blue and tiger prawns
dipped in garlic and butter, which were on sale
for twenty cents a piece or a platter for five bucks.

Canadians never kiss on Thanksgiving for they are
too full, too tired, too stretched to the limit, and theyve 
been watching football all afternoon with various
obnoxiously loud Canadian children bursting through
at the worst possible moments, and Canadian women
dont want to kiss on Thanksgiving either because the men
havent been doing anything all day, but complaining
about children that dont belong to them, and then act
as if the mere act of carving a Turkey warrants
a gold star or brass medal.  But, later when they are at home
and curled against one another against the cold, Canadian
winter the men will spoon the women kissing them
with their entire bodies, with limbs and love.  

© Heather Simeney MacLeod