When You Kiss Me

When you kiss me you get all of me,
the face, the mouth, the fingers.
You get the years of being broken by love.
The irreconcilable ache of this body, alone,
the unshackled heave of its engineering,
the low notes of want.
You get the breath still sour from last night’s dinner,
the vitamin deficiency,
the easy bruising,
this map of obsidian veins
embroidered down the backs of my calves.
My grandmother’s veins,
passed down.
You get the license to touch me there,
and there,
and there.
Not there.
Not yet.
Just.
Wait.
The fear of guns
and turbulence
and the green clouds that gather chemically
on the horizon
before becoming a tornado
and church
and holes
and frogs.
You get my lips and tongue and throat.
Drive trains of anger,
cylinders of yes,
giving and receiving
along with you,
working urgently
toward linguistics.
I have something important to tell you.
My desire had six names
before you.

Christy Prahl is a philanthropy professional, foraging enthusiast, and occasional insomniac. Her past, current, and future publications include The Bangalore Review, Peatsmoke, Boston Literary Magazine, High Shelf, Blue Mountain Review, Twyckenham Notes, and others. She is also the editor of the literary compendium A Construction of Cranes (Plastic Flame Press, 2020). She splits her time between Chicago and rural Michigan with her husband and plain brown dog.