The First Kiss
What a disappointment. Nothing like the movies,
nothing like the mind. A mass of muscles writhing,
an awkward hand on a tightened arse
at the under-sixteens “Angel and Demon Night”
What a farce. Is this the limbo
stick for life? Where are the fireworks,
the butterflies, the butterflies exploding
like fireworks into a glorious rainbow
of wings and ash?
My son will sit with me and I’ll tell him
the truth that there is no word to fit
a feeling of lust and immediate unrest.
Or the lingering taste, the pleasure, the alien
of a first kiss. There’s no word, I’ll tell him,
for the particular fullness that breaks through
the lungs and fills you with the breath
of their hair, for the sudden rush of two hands
clambering until the fingers find
each other and grip. Grip to that, I’ll tell him
and be thankful for the imperfection
of love and that the first kiss is nothing
like you expected.
Copyright © Russell Jones 2013
Russell Jones is an Edinburgh-based writer, researcher and editor. He has published two collections of poetry: “The Last Refuge” (Forest Publications, 2009) and “Spaces of Their Own” (Stewed Rhubarb, 2013). He is also the editor of “Where Rockets Burn Through: Contemporary Science Fiction Poems from the UK” (Penned in the Margins, 2012).