Poem 2 of 30 - April 2 - Because I cannot remember my first kiss #poems

Because I cannot remember my first kiss

but I remember sitting alone on the brown

couch in my grandmother’s living room,

couch whose cushion covers were of velvet

and the color of dark rust, or dried blood

- and sewn by the tailor from up the block,

the same one who made me my first light blue

suit two years earlier

And I sat there running my hands back

and forth

over the short smooth hairs of the fabric

and understanding what touch meant

for the first time – not touch, the word,

as in don’t touch the hot stove or don’t

touch your grandfather’s hats but touch

like Tom Jones was singing it right then

on the television, with a magic that began

in his hips, swiveled the word and pushed

it out through his throat into some concert

hall somewhere as a two-syllabled sprite,

so that women moaned syllables back in return.

And I knew I wanted to touch

like that                       because

Tom Jones stooped down at the edge

of the stage and a woman from the audience

in a leopard-print jumpsuit unfurled

from her front row seat, walked like

a promise of what I couldn’t quite

discern up to him and pushed her mouth

soft and fast up against his mouth

and they both cooed into his microphone

mouths still move-moaning together

like that for an eternity.  And then

Tom Jones unlocks his mouth from hers

while my breath is still caught

in my throat, and moves to the other

end of the stage, and squats there,

and kisses another woman from the audience

in a black jumpsuit, while the first

woman looks on, swaying so slightly

I almost can’t tell -  to the band

which is still vamping the chorus line –

mesmerized and taut with expectation as I

am, palms down on the velvet-haired

cushions           and Tom pauses, sensing

the first woman’s impatient almost-mewling

and says Easy Tiger while he moves his mouth

against this woman’s, his cheeks working

like tiny bellows, before returning to the first

one      and then the bridge or the chorus

or whatever – at that point the song

is an afterthought, and I knew there was

a mission to be fulfilled  - Tom Jones

pointed to the women and said touch

and the new color TV made everything

shimmer with promise so my eight year old

body preened and stretched itself against

the ecstatic couch and dreamed of what

tomorrow could be like if I could make

touch mean so many things, if I could

make a building or a body coo like this.

To schedule a reading or an appearance please contact Ofer Ziv at Blue Flower Arts at 845-677-8559 or email ofer@blueflowerarts.com. www.facebook.com/rogerbonairagard www.twitter.com/rogerbonair www.cypherbooks.com