|
Kissing by Stephanie Lane SuttonI mean, we are this intimate
with our food. Tongue to taste,
teeth to bite, lips to feel.
Hands that pass bread pass breast,
Hands that cup chin cup glass,
Like Christ forty days later,
so holy and brilliant, breaking the bread
that is body, drinking wine that is blood.
Like infants sucking nipples,
waiting for milk to squirt out of a fat,
unsexy breast. Like hunter, like french chef,
like pack of wolves: surviving.
Which set of lips
is a goblet of life?
Which pair of hands
a mother? Who is
a dead deer,
a seductive eclair,
a delicious quarry,
something caught and consumed?
This moment,
nailed down under a sunset,
a broken curfew,
a first time doing what;
a quenching of hormonal thirst,
a satisfying of an untamable craving,
leading to pants too tight,
a button that breaks loose. 07/13/2005 Posted on 07/13/2005 Copyright © 2010 Stephanie Lane Sutton
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Tracey Paradiso on 07/14/05 at 12:44 AM Wow ~ I'm especially enchanted with your first and last stanzas, and am ga-ga over the last two lines of the poem. *SWAK!* |
| Posted by Kimberly Bare on 07/14/05 at 03:26 PM great intro poem...looking forward to seeing more from you...Welcome! |
| Posted by Alaina Schneider on 07/17/05 at 04:50 AM wow, this is hot and deep. right on. you've got a point, and you drive it home with no chaperon. lovely. welcome to pathetic. |
| Posted by Felicia Aguilar on 07/18/05 at 03:00 PM Wow! This is just amazing. I especially love this: Which pair of hands
a mother? This is going under my favorites! Welcome to Pathetic :) |
| Posted by Don Matley on 01/03/08 at 12:13 PM Very powerful...I like the serious religious connotation of a kiss contrasted by the sexual and naughty nature of the act. Nice reading. Thanks. |
|