Chaste

I’ve no art for the chaste kiss. I try, badly, to  mimic your easy, small brushes, and feel  all the more lumbering trying. Where did I  learn this? When did I start to flinch at my  own arms, reaching. Who decided that my  body was dangerous, forceful, grasping? When did I start keeping myself on so short  a lead? When did I last run my thumb over  your knuckle, and not bite down the urge to  apologise? When did I first feel a shiver of  fear of a dangerous body I didn’t control?  Whatever I make of myself, waiting for me,  sewn to my core, the wolf in sheep’s clothing.