There might have been
seagulls in the sky.
Pink gum on the sidewalk
might have been bubbling
in the heat. The man
might have had a face,
if I had looked up—but I was a coward—
as he called us disgusting
animals, as he banished us to hell.
I didn’t let go of your hand—
I might have let it waft through mine
like a distant pink cloud
or a trash fire quickening
in a garden-green can.
I might have never
kissed you again,
but I did—only after
he had turned the corner,
only when I knew
he wasn’t coming back.
The bus we were walking to
might have left the stop by then.
I wasn’t sure if he’d come back.
Sometimes I kiss you
with one eye slit open
on street corners,
in restaurants, thinking of
the heaviest object in my bag—
how quick will I be able
to get to it, how hard
can I possibly swing.
_____
Nicole Pergue received her MFA in poetry at Hunter College, where she was the recipient of the Mary M. Fay award. She is a native New Yorker who grew up in Queens and currently lives in Brooklyn. She can be reached at nicolepergue@gmail.com.
