It was my grandfather who taught my brother how to kiss.
Palms against her face, he said, not too much tongue,
keep digging until teeth clack against bone.
In the kitchen my grandmother peeled mangos
until the sound of knife against soft flesh
drowned out mouth against mouth in the other room.
I grew up hating rainstorms because the lessons
always took place during monsoon season.
I always knew when the door shut, when the bedsprings creaked,
when my joints began to ache and the nectarines rotted
next to the slotted spoons.
I wonder if my brother sees my grandfather’s face
whenever he kisses his wife, if ghosts
are worse than their former bodies.
I wonder if my grandfather’s corpse is still smiling
the same way he used to
when he cupped my brother’s head in the backs of his hands.