Saturday, December 10, 2011

Kissing at a Stoplight

You can barely see the couple
in the car before ours,
behind the rear window that is so
tinted that it almost looks as though
it were trying to shield the reaching arms,
the tensed, groping fingers, the mingled hair,
the blurred figures that meld together
at the mouth—
yes, it is so tinted that you cannot see
the enraptured expressions
(their eyes mirror archangels)
of their faces, but their desperate dance
is too apparent:
You can see the tender dipping of their heads,
the small spark of a barely-met touch
blossoming into flames
as their blood catches fire,
and you can see the two avalanches
of bodies inclining farther
and farther, until they may have been one
blurry monster of agony and adoration…
My mother whispers, they can’t be married
yet; they’re too in love—
I watch her satin-wrinkled hands tapping the
steering wheel in impatience,
willing the light to blink into green,
exasperated at the star-crossed show
we are forced to attend—
and Yes, once in while the woman
will just barely break away
from the impulsive magnet
in her grasp, and glance at the stop
light, overpoweringly terrified
of the fluorescent scarlet melting
into green, willing the world to freeze
in motion, stuffing, into the very back
of her mind, the thought of time
running out.

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