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 They hold crucifixes, demanding that salvation matches the outdated text.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