Lent Poems 8: The Kiss
is expected: the customary greeting,
the place so familiar
(we’ve been here before)
and his eyes unsurprised
at me or the soldiers
who hang back now, none too discretely, behind,
awaiting the signal,
and he too, somehow, watching my move,
always ahead and yet biding his time.
And then, we have action:
the moment of contact,
the last blush of friendship.
The cheek brushing mine is
tender and soft; the jaw that’s behind
is firm as a stone.
The Consolations of Writing 