What better place for a memorable kiss than in Union Square across the street from the Sherman Café? Poet/Performer Marc Zegans captures this moment—and I can feel the steam rising.

Somerville

When I kissed her under the streetlight

in Somerville, across from the Sherman

off Union Square, I felt my feet dissolve

followed in quick succession by my knees

thighs, hips, neck, arms and head, leaving only

my lips. Lidless, I could see everything

the blue smoke surrounding her lips, drifting

cool through the space where our bodies had been

the teenagers ricocheting from light post

to light post, Bally’s silver “Balls a Poppin”

before draining in a chain down Webster

the lines of cars, the strings of bars, and her

long blond hair dancing samba with the smoke.

When was the last time a girl melted me

this way, and me her, a double dissolve

into the preternaturally warm

November New England night, sea salting

her delicious, expatriated lips?

That question would have to wait for morning

because we were kissing in Somerville

B.B. King was gone, and we had the thrill.

– Marc Zegans, December 31, 2011

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