I look into the mirror and try

To see my father. 

 

I have the same lips as my father

Brittle, cracked, picked at, easily bled,

But my father’s lips have been 

Kissed. 

 

As I look into the mirror and touch my lips,

I wonder who would covet this part of my visage.

Who would kiss them without hesitation?

Who would kiss them without force?

Who would kiss them at a moments notice? 

Who would write profusely about them and 

How in their roughness she sees tenderness?

How the cracks reminder of her crevice. 

 

These lips that have never been kissed 

On a dare, at a dance, under a tree or the stars.

The lips that have never been part of a cliché, 

A poem, a story, a tale, a daydream, a dream.

 

The same lips that Christ loves. 

The same lips my father has, 

Brittle, cracked, picked at, easily bled,

But his have been 

Kissed.