At the dining room table,
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