February, 1999.
A poem for Valentine's, dappled with Ash.
February, 1999
I was raised in a home where I never by any chance saw my parents kiss,
just my mom’s framed photograph inside dad’s closet of fading khaki suits.
and maybe I liked that kind of romantic
to let a lover who has passed see all the mends and bruises both mind and somatic
as you dress up,
a body they found relaxing to touch like bubble wrap.
I did hear of my friends getting their first kiss at sixteen,
while Sister Maria rebuked that “love at a young age may lead to sin”
that you had to learn how to feel the softness of the rosary beads,
before planting your lips in a prickling garden of sprouting beard.
But what do you learn seeing a girl and a boy against a locker in the classroom,
in the evening apricot sunlight and smacking sounds too?
It’s to apply red lipstick and drink cold coke at some bar on the roof
and tell someone you’ve never seen your parents kiss
as their hands are sweating inside the pockets of their Levi’s denim jeans
it's for them to swallow the lump and erase the space between
and for you to close your eyes and feel the crush of a bubble wrap
apricot sunlights,
smacking sound,
and try to imagine if that’s how it felt when your parents kissed,
in February,
1999.
Happy belated Valentine's day?
This is what I spent almost the whole of yesterday doing, writing this poem. Valentine's clashing with Ash Wednesday made it a little melancholic for me. Because one moment I was seeing bright bright roses on the road, the next I would think of mortality, and remember the dark-grey ashes that I admit to wipe clean off my forehead immediately after the church service ended yesterday morning.
The second melancholic part was when I went online. People’s Instagram stories blaring out “Can I call you Rose, cause you're sweet like a flower in bloom.” All of that is fine, the problem came with how some people shared posts that had an idea of assessing a relationship by how they are treated on February 14th. It quite broke my heart to think that someone was determining their sense of worth or how much they could be loved depending on what happens on that day.
All in all, writing this poem made me feel happy about myself and about the love that abounds right now and the promise of love in the future. I can tell you while writing I was listening to Noah Kahan’s music, to set the mood of love and sadness. Whatever happened or didn't happen, I hope you believe me when I say this, you are Loved! Loved before conception and beyond your last breath. Yes you are!