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Recordings
of two poems

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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.

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A History of Kisses

Listen to this poem

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

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To the Canada Geese that live in Oakland

Listen to this poem

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.

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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

© 2025 LeeAnn Pickrell

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