Willy DuWitt’s First Kiss

First time braced before glacé lips.
Bike sheds, shading the mandibles
of classrooms tacked on wooden
blocks, a herd of retired spacecraft.

Frigates shifting to silhouette
the school bell’s Righteous Indignation.

A kitten from the planet Aldebaran.
Her timorous lashes shuttering
sidereal chestnut eyes.

A lunch time of locked hands later.
The amphibian-faced phalanx of friends,
arms folded.
Crossing volleys of footballs to tell him
she’d said he was ‘blinkered’,
a ‘dead-eyed duckling’, not
‘psi’ enough to make it work.

How, stunned, he blazed back
she was too komplex.
Conjured insults too trenchant
to de-materialise;
satellites of cross-hairs
starring her name
at the front
of his French vocab book.

For weeks she remained his aniverse.
Stuck between the photon shock
of that kiss
and a place he’d used to call home.

Convinced it would always be just like this.
The omnipotent mouse saying nothing.

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