by Ophelia Lark
The music in Stacy’s wasn’t much better than
where we planned to meet up, but us dolls
settle and stayed. Anywhere to get inside,
Melrose District streets cooking even in the night.
Our butch bought me Lemon Drop shots
the whole night. I cackle like hot crackled lightning,
for once I’m not frightened: she passes her
cigarettes and I leave coffee colored lipstick on it.
My vision smears stage lights the same way, an
allegory to the space I fill, the mark I leave—not being
questioned. Indulgence like floral tights ripped
on my ass and I don’t cover it. I’m hot anyway. Indulgence
like us dolls talking hookups and chisme; laughing
loud like the rough pop-house DJ mix and we’re all
talking just loud enough to be fully heard by one another.
“I’ve only seen you date girls you dyke.”
“Boys are like cigarettes and chocolate to me.”