The Saint of Kisses
​by Athena Kildegaard

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​knew secret places:
cellar stair, cold storage,
empty cistern, spidered corner.

Knew the pantry,
last year's chutney, marmalade, pickled rind,
#10 cans of tomatoes stacked blue yellow red
like the flags of salty empires.

The saint of kisses knew attic dormer,
ghosts, young lovers clandestine,
cracked panes sealed black by electric tape,
elders rummaging for memory,
sad pouts of dust.

Knew the pump shed
cobwebbed and dank,
lewd at the back.

The saint smelled of abandoned places
cedar, dust mite, lavender, mortar.

We lined the streets to see her off,
couldn't believe our eyes,
how beautiful she was, luminous,
as if she were nowhere, anywhere.