Kiss
A pop, a flush of flame, the chill
falls back to walls and panes.
The fire will have its evening feast.
The keeper serves the hissing snakes,
the hollow, roaring throat, the crackle
and the cackle, and the lisping whistles
simpering from its golden mouth
when the rage of birth leaves it for a time.
And, oh, that mouth, that north and south
pouting, puckering a kiss to graze lazy
cheeks, nipped tips, a stiffened neck,
peachy lips that draw cool eyelids near.
But no, I’ve seen tables, chairs, pianos
mouthed in a flash, you rot them to the core.
Your sizzling kuss is for the whole world
one day they say. You’ve not kissed me.
But then, before your sun kisses the earth
you’ll melt me kissing all my body, utterly.
Peter De Ville has worked as a university lecturer in Italy. He writes poetry : Open Eye , Ciao Marco Martial (Shoestring Press), prose, is a translator and reviewer. He is a Bogliasco Foundation Fellow in Literature – Creative Writing.