KISSING

“Why is that fun?” I wondered as a kid—
the press of mouths, rubbing of lips,
sharing of saliva and stinks: peanut butter
with jack cheese, tuna with milk.

Did the kissers mean to form an air-tight seal?
Would they twist together like lead pipes?
Were their skulls like tortoises trying to mate?
Later, I learned that some kissers are vacuums,

Eager to yank out their partner’s guts.
Some are shuttles that link up, hoping
to construct a safe station in space.
Some lips, when kissed, are rubber bumpers;

others, suctions cups. In the “French kiss,”
tongues embrace like slippery snakes.
Kissing, for men, is more intimate than sex;
the mouth’s portcullis lifts to let the female in.

If breath is life, and human life has soul,
A kiss is two souls mingling. But breath is waste,
a by-product of oxidation; so shared breath
is shared excreta—intimate, yes; but romantic?

Not all cultures kiss. Some tribes rub noses,
or just fuck, struggling not to knock heads.
Kissing may be a safety precaution for heads,
Like bracing melons so they won’t roll off a truck.

I’ve felt lessened by kissing—emotionally shrunk.
With you, though, it’s a perfect trade.
We part, having given what we have in surplus,
having gained exactly what we need.


~Charles Harper Webb



(from Webb, Charles Harper. "Kissing." Amplified Dog. Los Angeles: Red Hen Press, 2006)