Only Once

Only Once

(“While he was still a long way off, his father saw him and his heart was stirred with love and pity. He ran to him, hugged him tight, and kissed him.” Luke 15:20b)

I have only once been kissed by a man,
a big black man,
10 years my junior,
6 inches higher.

I have only once been kissed by a man,
save my father as I bobbled saggily in diapers,
but I was kissed by a man in
the last church my dad ever attended.

I had skipped several meetings, the table talk,
the bread dipped in wine. The last time had been
weeks beyond my memory. But he saw me
as my feet fell into a carpet covered Sunday.

He is boisterous; he thinks everyone is wonderful.
He is full noon at the beginning of the day.
His wife, not quite prim, but proper, shines
more silently.

I have only once been kissed by a man,
black-suited, like a heart-seeking missile he
saw me enter and
wrapped his huge arms around my receptive shoulders
and kissed me on the cheek so quickly
I had no time to think and no place to run.
I was stunned in the most gracious way.

Sometimes our hearts are towed from squared
basements and foundations
toward a horizon where the sea mist caresses us
like the first time I ever
was kissed by a man.