by Julia Terranova
A bunch of fresh mint
bruised between lips 
will release its oils
a rush of scent—
sharp as an arrow head,
cold as steel, 
the taste
so green it hurts
Lips crushed against lips
which belong to another,
whom you must not kiss;
produce the same rush— 
sharp enough to draw breath,
a quick burn, so cold it blisters
The tongue parts the lips 
then the taste of fresh mint 
pierces, to be passed 
back and forth 
like gum between young lovers
Lips which you must not kiss 
raise the skin like
running your thumb along
a freshly sharpened blade