Kissing gate

  • Posted on April 21, 2013 at 11:32 am

The rustic V gives no room
to rucksack or handbag, presses
cleavage like some unwelcome grope—
I cannot say ‘excuse me’ as I ease,
scrape, through, out, step back

then grasp the rail, hold it closed
until a kiss unlocks it. Instead
I walk away, take eyes, take mouth—
I cannot say ‘kiss me’ as I sigh,
escape, screw turn, step on

to keep cows safe, as if they might drift
to fields unready for their mouths,
choose to walk through them, not round—
lesbians all, bulling, mounting
in absence, climbing backs.

Kissing gates used to work so well,
powered as they were by a part of me,
these eyes still close in expectation—
I lose the kiss, excuse myself;
a cow backs down, she lifts her tail.

I do not turn to the rustic creak
or the girls who giggle, squeeze the V,
bar the gate, embrace its railing—
kiss without passion or excuse
unfolding the path with laughter.


2012 © Andie Davidson


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