Pink Pants

They say you reach a tipping point and mine was the day she said “nice pants” and maybe
I had had just enough bullying by church girls and enough bullying at junior high
and there was no place that I really fit in so you could say not pink but red and not red but rage
so I said to the mouthy girl meet me after school and I’ll beat the shit out of you
by which I meant I’ll make you sorry you said anything by which I meant I’m sick to death
of being picked on by which I meant I hate my parents and the church and rules and God
for all the blame they’ve laid on me so at 3:30 pm the girl and I met outside the school
ringed by kids like a swarm of sharks in chummed water and I hit her once and again
while the kids yelled louder and louder fight fight fight until a teacher came and broke us up
and I don’t know what happened next maybe they called my parents or maybe we were sent
to the principals office but she never spoke to me again and I can’t remember her face now
though I imagine her hair was red and I remember my pink flamingo pants were soft
brushed cotton fashion-forward-bell-bottoms and the outside line of each leg embellished with
nickel studs and I loved those pants meaning I loved my aunt and uncle for being cool
and giving me cool clothes for my birthday meaning I loved being seen by them as cool enough
to wear them even though I didn’t feel cool meaning I despised that mean girl for pointing out 

I wasn’t cool enough. The answer is never violence until it is. A dog lunges at a kid on a bike.
That was grade seven. That was long ago. My palms are sweaty and my breath is shallow
just thinking about it.


Published in Poetry Ireland Review #143, Edited by Mícheál McCann, August 2024