Waves and Wet Kisses

I had only seen my parents kiss twice.
The first time after my father’s ear surgery.
I was seven or so, don’t recall the nature of the kiss
but only that his hearing was bad
from his youthful years of lifeguarding.
Or was it after he tore the cartilage around his ribs
from lifting heavy glass bottles of milk?
I don’t recall.

The second time was after my mother’s mastectomy.
They rolled her out of recovery.
She looked sad without her glasses —
eyes, small and watery.
He bent over and touched his lips to hers
then turned away and shook his head.

So that is it; that is all.
Two small kisses
for me to coast on like a wave.

 

Ann Iverson, Mouth of Summer (Kelsay Books, 2017)