The Archipelago of Kisses // Jeffrey McDaniel

We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't grow
on trees, like in the old days. So where

does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card

in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.

The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we
shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips

taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of
tingles kiss.

The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad

sometimes kiss. The I know
your tongue like the back of my hand kiss.

As you get older,
kisses become scarce. You'll be driving

home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you were younger,

you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's red door
just to see how it fits. Oh where does one find love?

If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.

Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don't invite the kiss over

and answer the door in your underwear.
It'll get suspicious and stare at your toes. Don't

water the kiss with whisky. It'll turn bright pink and
explode into a thousand luscious splinters,

but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,

and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the
little cuts it left on the inside of your mouth. You must

nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights.
Notice how it illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest

and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a
special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow,

then look up the first recorded kiss in an
encyclopedia: beneath a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.

But one kiss levitates above all the others. The intersection
of function and desire. The I do kiss.

The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss. Even when
I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,

like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your
bones.