At the dining room table,

Hands folded,

Voice gently gravelling like sand underfoot.

The old butch dyke uses words

Like Stonewall and Assimilation.

She has a shaven head and isn’t wearing a bra;

For some reason, these are the things I notice.

A hundred miles away

The tide washes in,

The smooth ripples of clay,

The murky handprints of water on dry sand,

The gravel a foot beneath the surface.

You can dig it up with five fingers.

There’s life in there, too:

Plankton and small emerita sand crabs

That can bury themselves in one and a half seconds

To escape the hands of curious children

With science labs in colored plastic buckets.

The old lesbian can’t believe

That I don’t know what happened at Stonewall.

She says without history, there is no community.

She is like an old king in a dying kingdom,

A farmhouse surrounded by skyscrapers.

She wears her history

And guards it jealously with a rusty trident,

Unintimidating but twice as dangerous.

She is ready,

She is waiting for the next tide.

By Sophia Rabb, Contributor

All Images via Google Images

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