Kiss Math by Justin Rigamonti

Lucky you, extrapolating love from one kiss. 
The dog can’t do this so she gets ten. 
A kiss is indicative for you of all my love, 
isn’t it? You can do the math, she can’t,
which is why I’m kissing her head so much. 
If one kiss means the world to you,
then why would you need another?
I bury my face in her soft red hide and kiss her. 
I pull at her soft red legs and kiss her. 
Meanwhile, you subsist on kisses past, 
kisses immaterial. The only real kiss is 
the one happening now. And now,
nothing is happening—you’re both asleep. 
I’m writing alone by candlelight.

Justin Rigamonti teaches English at Portland Community College and serves as the Program Coordinator for PCC's Carolyn Moore Writing Residency. Justin's poems have been recently published or are forthcoming in Ploughshares, Hayden's Ferry Review, Frontier Poetry, American Poetry Review, Rattle, Smartish Pace, and New Ohio Review, and his poem “The Secret” recently appeared in anthology The Poetry of Grief, Gratitude and Reverence (Wisdom Books, 2024).

Published October 15 2025