
Recordings
of two poems
Step into the rhythm and emotion of the written word. On this page, I've included recordings of two poems, each a reflection of a distinct moment in my creative journey.
The first poem, A History of Kisses, was inspired by Tess Gallagher's book Portable Kisses: Love Poems.
The second, To the Canada Geese That Live in Oakland, emerged from an encounter with a goose at Lake Merritt in Oakland, California. Below each recording, you’ll find the full text of the poem so you can follow along.
​​
A History of Kisses
The first kiss
part kindergarten sandbox,
a forewarning: Good girls
don’t, the head mistress said,
her face as stiff as
Episcopalian red brick.
The second
given not on
slim lips but on a boy’s
flat belly button.
The whole school knew,
my reputation formed at seven.
Wet, slick, gifts of
saliva, but my father gave
straight-lipped ones;
my grandfather’s
favorite game—kiss
the drinking man.
Kisses spoken in French.
The night that boy asked,
I couldn’t say,
Je ne comprends pas, while
his tongue pried
my lips apart.
I kissed a girl once,
the first time I got drunk,
my father’s gin
searing the path
to my gut.
Light diffused by
red walls.
Most lead somewhere. A kiss
for kiss’s sake? The
no lipped ones—I’ve been
swallowed by Moby Dick!
A kiss is sex.
That first one—
with someone fresh—burns
in a good way.
Movie kisses, explorations,
chocolate promises.
Sometimes I forget
that lips’ translucent film
can poison.
​
Published in The Santa Barbara Review, 1995

To the Canada Geese that live in Oakland
You’re supposed to migrate,
spend summers in Canada. Instead you’ve
settled in Oakland, here at our urban
saltwater lake where I perch on a picnic table
eating a slice of pizza—caramelized onions, roasted squash, Gruyère
cheese. You stride over, honking, stand, waiting, indignant
(if you had hands they’d be on your hips)
that I’m not feeding you—and all your relatives—even a bite.
You have more children than Mormons.
​
I mention the bird flu, flying east from Asia. You,
however, seem unmoved by threats. Don’t
you want to migrate? Neil Young sings about how they miss you
in Canada arcing over the plains. You could
still stop off—on your way south or north—
for a visit, a short one, three days but no longer, since company,
like fish, then begin to smell.
​Originally published in SoMa Literary Review, February 2008
Photo Credits for both images on this page:
Jr Korpa on Unsplash