Poetry Issue 11

   Issue # 11: January-June 2009

Ian Pople



The Kiss


      August is still,
      the river, carnal,
      and cuts the counties,
      standing water
      in unploughed fields.
      In the headlights
      a cat chews carrion,
      its head is working
      side to side,
      and as you spit
      a fingernail,
      the floating memory
      of a kind of kiss;
      of how she went
      for flowers in
      a foreign night,
      and, dark with
      other language,
      window open
      for nectar moths,
      the pumping heat,
      a disco rising,
      her returning
      with the words,
      ‘how like you this?’