University. Waverly. I kept saying
the street names in my head. Greene.
Astor. So I’d know how to get back
to the train, to Queens, after.
I think she held my hand
from Washington Square to her place.
Would you like juice? she asked,
in her small kitchen, before.
She drank from the carton.
In the middle of it I wanted to ask
her name. (You shouldn’t be thinking
about her name, I told myself.)
I said Thank you, at the door, after.
She kissed me goodbye. It was unlike
the other kisses, cold on my forehead.
Like my mother forgiving me,
but not all the way.