On Kissing

Instead of getting some version of the birds
and bees talk that every mother is supposed to give 

her daughter at the approach of puberty, I was handed 
a book called On Becoming a Woman. On the front

cover, two preppy-looking guys check out a pretty 
brunette as she walks through a park. I mean,

anyone can tell it's a park because the cover design
wraps around the spine to the back, where a mother

and her young son are pictured bending toward hungry 
pigeons, and in the distance a couple strolls past

a statue. The front endpapers depict a tableau—
bride in her veil and poufy skirt attended 

by bridesmaids, while mother and flower girl 
look on adoringly. I couldn't read what she was

thinking—my mother, I mean. She acted 
nonchalant, even as she warned boys would try 

sometime to kiss me, but kissing itself was 
overrated. A kiss, she said, feels like what we do 

as we suck garlicky steamed snails into our mouths. 
When that doesn't work, a safety pin might help.