The Last Kiss

by Mosab Abu Toha

The Last Kiss
On the way to the battlefield

At the door of a train
heading to the next station
before the battlefield,
her hands wrap around the back
of his neck.

(soldiers behind
on seats
or standing
someone sending a goodbye
text message
to a distant relative,
someone checking they still have
a family photo
a mother has put
in the jacket’s inner pocket.)

the young wife
still at the door of the train
smells her husband
smiles as she glimpses the lipstick
below his earlobe
from last night.
No textbooks or notebooks
no pencils or erasers in his backpack.
Only a toothpaste and a comb,
a few jet–black hairs from her,
a sandwich and a book of prayers,
and a list of names
they both brainstormed
for their to–be–born baby.
Around his neck, a scarf she bought
on his 30th birthday.
Around his wrist
a watch he kept from school years.

She kisses him, his cap hides
her tearful eyes.
“The doors are shutting soon. Beware!”
A voice of an old man comes out
through the train’s speaker.
And the young man’s voice is never heard
again.