Dyke March, San Francisco
Do the best you can with your burden.
I am reading The Well of Loneliness,
wounds dressed in language,
on loan from the library.
Outside, June blooms in Pride flags.
It’s hard to be proud alone.
Instead I take a painkiller and rest
my head in the lap of sadness.
Night comes. No one left here
but the protagonist and me,
tallying our burdens. One,
we pushed away our lovers. Two,
we thought it for the best. Three,
we opted for gay shame.
Of course the book ends badly.
Someone wrote Women loving women
can be beautiful! in pen on the last page.
In line for tacos downstairs, revelers
trade in the queer currency of drama
universal and specific. Their voices
reach me through the open window.