KISS

I have taught him
to kiss me on the lips
when I arrive for a visit
and when I leave,
his whiskers brush my chin.

I refuse to let his kiss
fall on my forehead or my cheek
but face him straight on,
my hands on his shoulders
hold him still.

Hardly a lover,
more than
a friend, Father,
we never talk
but our mouths meet
like two small animals,
blind and dumb.

They touch
then move on,
tunnel deep in the earth
where they know the other's
taste and smell

the age-old taboos
of father and daughter,
the bitter, inexorable
pull of blood.

Lorna Crozier
Toronto, Ontario