Lovers are two noses,
tips touching in the cold,
“Eskimo kisses,”
(as the Inuit roll their eyes).
But follow me here.
Skin meeting skin,
the heat of breath exchanged,
the winged smoke that flies
from sighs in January air –
those are the things
that turn your belly
inside out.
Until you’ve rubbed
each other raw, of course.
Okay. Enough.
Go away now.
*Apologies in advance to the Inuit. “Eskimo kisses” are entirely a western misinterpretation of a cultural tradition, making this poem even more ironic. It’s not meant to be disrespectful.
