Tonight's Poet Corner: There Are No Queers In Letherton

There Are No Queers In Letherton
by Belinda Roddie

There are no queers in Letherton;
at least, that's what they say. They
dim the neon on the streets so
the colors don't shine the way
they're meant to. They keep patrols
out looking for strangers holding hands
in an unorthodox grip. They hold crucifixes,
demanding that salvation matches
the outdated text.

There was "one" queer in Letherton,
but they say she left years ago. She
found a cream heart swirled in her coffee,
brewed by a worker with curls. Curls
she kissed before retreating to a warm,
non-discerning bed. They say she left,
but they won't mention the word "DYKE"
etched into her arm. With a knife wielded
by the mayor's son, no less.

The clubs are loud and lively on Fridays,
and one thing is perfectly clear: When you
step onto the silver floor, there is a
wavering glimpse of something human
beneath the dampened lights. There is
color hidden within heavy coats, a glass
passed from one smiling man to another. A
woman swallows hormones and applies lipstick
in the proper bathroom. And below the bass,
where the authorities can't find shadows,
the queers of the town lock arms,
exhale the fumes of absinthe and exasperation,
and pray for a different Letherton.