Being kissed on the
By Margaret
A. Robinson
front porch, I stand
in darkness, bristled
doormat under my feet,
iron lips grinding
at mine -- grit my
teeth 'til it's
over like getting
a filling or clenching
eyes shut during a flue
shot -- later,
a similar ache, toll
paid for being
sixteen -- but the first,
at eleven, our sixth
grade class racing
about our sun-filled
classroom, windows
wide open to spring --
a boy's hunger lit,
butterfly on my mouth,
sweet and quick,
darted off.