Rural Illinois, 1969
 

Kissed-Off
 

       Lord knows I’m a voodoo chil’.

—Jimi Hendrix
 

Until that night a girl

had only kissed me. Not I

a girl. I was fifteen and for over
 

a year Jimi’d been telling me

he was a voodoo chil’, yeah,

and I wasn’t. No moon
 

had turned a fire red,

and not one mountain lion

had found me waitin’. Now
 

I was going with Sue, at whose

Midwest harvest party

I’d do the kissing. Nervous
 

and showing it, acting

distractedly, voice shaking,

our friends milling, I knew
 

it was a now-or-never situation,

even though I’d never ever

and didn’t really know. Giddy
 

and ridiculous, we slid into

the stairwell, out of range

of her parents in the kitchen,
 

the kids below: the outskirts

of our infinity…  We made eyes.

We made small talk. But all I
 

could think about was making

my move. (If only I’d had a

Venus witch’s ring.) Then inching
 

my arm and small-talking her

a little more, I aimed my face

and kissed her! And oh, Lord,
 

the gypsy was right: amazing

and no big deal at once. So we

kissed again (Lord knows I
 

felt no pain) and for three months

flew on as make-out fiends—until

she dropped me for my best friend
 

at her party for my sixteen-and-

been-kissed birthday. And I fell

downright dea-ea-ead.
 
 

Stereo Story #775
 

See also: First kiss: poem for an unknown song

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