One day I was an ordinary girl
and the next I knew how to French Kiss.
One tender teenage smooch mining for gold
and hitting a vein, started explorations
like Lewis and Clark, mapping out
territories which begged to be discovered.
I liked him,
he liked me—
we kissed at the stop light
and in his basement with his mother upstairs
dancing.
He got to first base,
his tongue tentatively touched my lips,
parted them,
and traced the inner edge on top
back and forth.
It took courage,
kissing him, it was like chocolate melt,
sweet and smooth teenage need and guilt
responding with fervor
and flavor.
Magic intensity increased:
sighs, moans, new sounds
escaped those lips.
Years later, we met in an elevator,
he kissed me again
this time secreting
a Frappuccino-flavored ice cube,
ice-stirring passion,
stirring memories
of my first very wonderful
and mysterious
unrequited love
and tasty French kisses.
