How many of my kisses
would it take to satisfy you, you ask
as your mouth grazes the back of my knee.
As many as the grains of Mojave sand
that lie between the basin and range,
national parks, and a tiny cabin in Searchlight,
in the sun scorched canyon near the hot springs,
and in the fire-kissed valley of the petroglyphs at dusk,
or in the discarded clothes in a two-person tent
with instant soup and a game of dirty Yahtzee.
As many as these grains of sand
dance among the Joshua trees
or as many as the stars, night unmoving,
gazing down on this secret desire:
as many of your kisses, kissed
are enough, and more, for love-drunk me,
as can’t be counted by exes
nor a careless word between us.
-- Angela Brommel
Comments