I have a habit of kissing his palms
like I’m worshipping at the statue
of St. Joan of Arc, praying for strength.

I like kissing the inside of his elbows
to taste the hot, salty life resting
just below delicate skin.  I bite him here.

Too often, I find myself kissing his neck
like Dracula going in for the **** except
I bring no death only big purple black holes.

I love kissing just below his bellybutton
to pay homage to his mother who lived connected
to him right above where I am connected to him.

My lips are always kissing his feet
like I am Mary Magdalene and he is
Christ, anointed oils spilled on the carpet.