Kissed by the president in the airport lot
outside Saginaw, her forehead drew crowds
all evening. They came to her through a cold
maze of words, uniformed man with gold stars
on arms that brushed her cheek, bare-necked
woman with gloves of ice that shook and shook
her hand, reaching down to take her full name
and age, which was eight. She couldn’t sleep
on the drive home. The spot above one brow
warmed and beat with stillness as the moon
rose splintered in the frozen window.
Stillness
and this fear: squeezing her eyes to see herself
spread under cereal boxes in the morning papers
of strange kitchens, herself on the TV screen
in the bowling alley downtown, in the magazines
the mailman pulled out from his deep blue bag
of arguments. She saw her face in the broken
moon and wanted it back. But the voice of nine
said no, said not a chance, she’s gone, and now
and for whatever it’s worth, you’ve been kissed.
Todd Smith 