A brief kiss by two lovers

on the street, given hurriedly

without thought.  Even the moonlight

doesn’t make them linger.

I say, if you’re going to kiss goodbye

do it like you mean it,

never hurry.

 

 

If my lover were here

on this same street

I would grab the hair

on the back of his head

and pull him to me.

Goodbye kisses should be

bruising, trembling things.

teeth on teeth, thrusting tongue,

howl at the moon.

 

Times like this I feel loss

the most, when I see others,

so careless with love,

when I see the moon, full tonight

knowing tomorrow it will be less.

---

Kathy Stevenson’s essays and short stories have appeared in a wide variety of newspapers, magazines, and literary journals including The New York Times, The Writer, Newsweek, Philadelphia Inquirer, Chicago Tribune, Clapboard House, Red Rock Review, Tishman Review, and many others. Her short story “Homeland Security” was featured in a recent issue of the Same.  She has lived in Colorado, Pennsylvania, Florida, Illinois, and is now (hopefully) settling forever in California. She has an MFA from Bennington College.  You can read more of her work on www.kathystevenson.com, or follow her @k_stevenson01.