Good Kissing
After Jorie Graham’s “Two Paintings by Gustav Klimt”
The moon, the river bleeding out its glamour
and spume—I wanted to marry it all.
Mosquitoes circling nests of eggs,
dragonflies feasting from dusk-blurred water.
Why did no one teach me that behind
every miracle is a god taking everything
it wants? I'd trace my finger over
the picture book drawing of the tree
of the knowledge of good and evil,
savor the stories of women. Proverbs—
Eve, the apple luscious as her sin. Genesis—
Lot's wife's a salt goddess, her body
no Sodom, torched. Salome. Delilah.
Potiphar's wife. Jezebel. But when Robert,
my aunt's boyfriend, bomber jacket
hugging his biceps, edged my aunt against
the sink as she sliced tomatoes,
kissed her with an open mouth? I'd never seen
a man touch a woman like that—
his throat flushed, her bleached Farrah
Fawcett cut catching in his mouth.
She gasped, laughed, begged him to stop.
Because I believed he was killing her,
I ran at him, fisted raised. A humid afternoon
in Georgia, 1989. Even now, I want
to erase Robert's hands from her body—
his touch proving I was stupid to love's hunger.
Good kissing, my aunt said, is what a man
and woman do to make a baby.
Weeks later, she's pregnant when they go
to dinner, hostess seating them in their favorite
booth. The walls a montage of Elvis EPs—
"Love Me Tender," "Viva Las Vegas."
Photos of the King sealed under
lacquer, the table's scratched history.
For women in my family, every
miracle begins with a man, an origin story.
When she told him, he threw down
twenties, walked straight into the night.
No longer body but shadow of court
hearings, custody payments,
he was the hole her daughter
would learn to call father.
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