poetry
1 min
Stage Kiss
Marjorie Hazeltine
The stage lights created a heat
that hung over us,
and in the air
dust particles waited, suspended in anticipation.
He didn't want to do this
and I felt it—
My heart raced like a kitten
terrified of being held
terrified of not being held.
My character was a maid, his a cad;
We weren't in our costumes.
His t-shirt hung loosely on his skinny frame.
In the script the words sat
innocent and italicized:
(They kiss.)
The black paint of the stage was peeling
beneath my sandals and green-painted toes.
The taste of fear and anticipation lingered
like a sharp cheese under my tongue.
He wouldn't meet my gaze
but his face approached mine.
(They kiss.)
All I could feel was teeth and bone
two unsharpened pencils
pressed longwise against my mouth—
Where did his lips go?
We pulled away.
The stage lights flooded my vision
and I couldn't see the director
when he said,
"You'll keep practicing."
Somewhere in the haze of light and sweat
the teenage promise of a first kiss
floated just out of reach
and then lazily drifted up into the rafters
disappearing among the dusty, suspended curtains.
Please enjoy this literary gift from the San José Public Library!
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