A FEW KISSES

Is there a cure for this?
We exchanged the sweetest kiss.
It is difficult to describe my illness
Except to say it has weakened my defenses
Not exactly in my body, but somewhere deep within.
There is not one word for this illness in all of medicine.
It is more real than anything in psychology books
And from every official person I get the strangest looks.

And friends? To complain of this to friends is the worst.
I would tell a complete stranger first,
For my illness is strange; I am now, myself, a stranger,
And talk to myself at length, at all hours, about this danger
To my health. Nothing is the same
Since my blood was stamped with the being and the being’s name.

I have succumbed to joy! Illness? Illness of bliss!
It is the illness which surpasses all illnesses—
And I know in my heart there’s no cure for this.
If only officials had stopped us when we first kissed,
Or a friend had been present, or a feminist.
The feminist could have shouted, “He’s stalking you!”
But we were alone. For a kiss. Or two.

 

 

 

 

 

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