Poetry
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.
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