Your Mother’s First Kiss

The first boy to kiss your mother later raped women

when the war broke out. She remembers hearing this

from your uncle, then going to your bedroom and lying

down on the floor. You were at school.

Your mother was sixteen when he first kissed her.

She held her breath for so long that she blacked out.

On waking she found her dress was wet and sticking

to her stomach, half moons bitten into her thighs.

That same evening she visited a friend, a girl

who fermented wine illegally in her bedroom.

When your mother confessed I’ve never been touched

like that before, the friend laughed, mouth bloody with grapes,

then plunged a hand between your mother’s legs.

Last week, she saw him driving the number 18 bus,

his cheek a swollen drumlin, a vine scar dragging itself

across his mouth. You were with her, holding a bag

of dates to your chest, heard her let out a deep moan

when she saw how much you looked like him.