The Kiss

When I hear of Schrödinger's cat,I reach for my pistol.

—Stephen Hawking

Moody, black-haired, shewas a whole philosophy—just another girl, perhaps, butnot to me.

When she kissed me roughlyon the lips,as if I'd been staggered bytwo battleships,

I lay exhausted on thecooling sand.Life seemed only aconjunction—and,

or or, perhaps, or yet. Or but.I touched my mouth,bleeding from an invisiblecut.

And that was all. One kissby the glaring bay—sometimes love happens thatway.

A few nights later, this localgoddess turnedand said carelessly, in a waythat burned,

"I don't think of you thatway, I guess."She touched me then with theghost of a caress.

Now, when we happen tomeet,a wall of glass rises betweenus on the street

or in the bar where we'vegone for a drink,she grabbing in her purse, thenight again like ink.

Some know who they are bywhat is missing.Perhaps there's a worldwhere we kept kissing,

where we married, had threekids,and did what decency nowforbids.

Nothing terrible happened, noone was swept away,and our lives continuedalmost the same way.