Kisstress

 Kisstress

 

You often ask me what’s in a label

like mistress? Or near the same:

let’s dismiss it as a tag, and I confess

I think I’ll call you Kisstress.

A cop out, perhaps, so arrest me

and I’ll admit it under duress,

while taking time for six of the best.

 

Or here’s another, let’s name you mother,

you set me above all others:

at least, I think that’s in their compact,

yet again, how would I know?

You rate my views, caution anger

and scold my words, my words have power,

gauge my playing with a lenient ear,

like, hey girls, look, my boyfriend’s here

to stay me from where my demons go.

 

No, not that, instead let’s call you nurse,

sewing lost buttons to my shirt

and scrubbing at those tough, sticky stains,

you wash my feet like Magdalene,

dark in eyes and dark in hair,

at dusk let’s push that finger there,

cleanse with mouth all that remains.

 

Or better yet, let’s just forget,

and take a cup of kindness yet,

something along those lines, anyway

because I think there’s too much

of I am this and I am that

and I’m sure I’m such and such,

translating what’s plain into obtuse,

pursed lips tell tales of something's missing,

but know that they should stick to kissing,

while words take care of one another,

I think perhaps we’ll call it lover.