I told my baby that,
toward the end of an American action film, when
the hero and the damsel in distress are checking each
other for cavities, or, these days, tonsillitis or GERD,
with their tongues, and the strings are rising on the
soundtrack like heavenly hosts glorying in implied
happy hereafter, and I’m teetering on the brink of
buying all that hokey claptrap, I try to remind myself
that, within the past ten minutes or so, he has been
punched several times, in the mouth and about
the head, by the villain and his henchmen, while,
usually, she has recently been sexually menaced
by same, so they must both be in shock, and
not really responsible for their behavior. It
won’t work out well for them, I tell myself.
My baby didn’t think it was funny, or useful
information for me to have shared, but instead
of saying so, she hit me, harder than necessary,
in the mouth, twice, with her soft fist,
mashing my lips against my teeth and
bringing a little blood: She studies Tao, but practices shit-stick Zen.
Later, when she kissed me hard, it didn’t hurt
my soft, bruised lips at all. Then, I menaced her.