Kisses Aren't Contracts

"Kisses aren't contracts"
He said to me after we had kissed.
We were young, in college.
We had been in high school together,
But had never spoken.
He had been cool,
And I had not.

On a cold, gray winter's day,
He called me.
He was there, at my school,
Visiting an ex.
It had gone badly.
I didn't understand then that
Kisses aren't enough to create
A relationship, a friendship.
Sometimes, they are just enough
To stop pain from somewhere else.
But now, when things don't work out,
I remember that kisses aren't contracts.

Child in My Window

In the morning, I sit at my kitchen table,
Writing.
My window peers into the kitchen across the alley.
Inside the refrigerator door,
A child stands,
Looking.
Snuggled in the refrigerator's embrace,
Her blond hair catching the morning sun.
The image makes me think of home.
I imagine my own childhood
And wish that both my parents had been there.
The kitchen across the alley is quiet,
It feels safe.
The child stands,
Looking,
Letting the refrigerator's offerings fill her eyes
While the warmth and security of the kitchen
Surround her,
Even as the cold air escapes into a summer's morning.

Generosity

Generosity is in your name,
your nature.
Before you were born,
People knew, telling your father your name.
Today, your patience belies the essence,
Answering the same question again and again.
Will you be generous with your heart?
Would you share it with me?
Like a game at a picnic,
Little nibbles of intimacy,
Small entreés into you, your soul.
Can you be generous with this?

Generosity means so many things.
It is a way of treating people, and oneself.
Playing frisbee in the park,
Making a pie on your table,
We were at home,
Sharing a moment in time.

When I asked you to talk about the Conflict,
You were generous with me.
I can't imagine the pain of being segregated and discriminated
In my own home, in my country.
Disbelieved, feared.
We lay in the park until they told us to leave,
And you told the man that I had been telling you a story.
You were generous even with him.
Yet that abyss of experience and pain still separates us.

Symbolism

My skin is what it is:
Mozzarella.
But it could be gold
in some places.
Just the color is enough
to scream "wealth", "power",
but I didn't choose this.
How can I represent what
I didn't choose?
Don't believe?
Don't want?