I leaned into her body, just beginning to cool, and brought
my lips to her forehead. I brushed her hair as she once had
mine. I, now, the matriarch of the remaining men.
I had previously brought my mouth to his
closed casket. Brother older by six years;
I hadn’t seen him in one.
Other brother, you died lonely, unshaven,
unclean, of too much drink. Red hair greased,
face sallow; not the man I knew.
Father, your forehead already grown cold,
I pressed my lips to your familiar face,
scenting only memory; some can’t kiss back.
Love, you parted your lips for me often
during the end, but having lost muscle strength,
could no longer pucker: mouth open, as when learning to kiss.
When we are born, we are covered in kisses,
long before we can kiss back. Later, we kiss for two—
mouths open, ready to receive the anointing with hallowed breath.
