Central Pennsylvania
Every Friday and Saturday night,
and sometimes Thursdays, too, we would drive
the highway out from the college town,
past farmland, turn down that road that led
deep into the forest. In the dark,
we parked and followed the unlit path,
Hansels and Gretels flocking, hungry,
to our gingerbread shack, sweets hidden
behind a plain façade, unmarked save
for a rainbow draped over the door.
Inside, we threaded dollars into
the jukebox, into the spangled straps
of each queen’s dress, blew kisses to Cher
lookalikes, to our friend who sauntered
and swiveled to Shania, who worked
days as a fry cook and nights the crowd,
who knew we, too, hadn’t been impressed
much, had, oh man, felt like a woman
sidling up, pulling us to the floor
to sway under lazy purple lights
to Macy Gray might leave us dizzy
for days. I have forgotten the names
of all the butches who bought me drinks,
of the flannelled bartender who played
eight ball in the hour after last call,
of even the bar itself, but still
recall the pleather chairs that stuck red
welts to my thighs, that creaked as I plied
beautiful strangers with cigarettes,
still remember their sports bras under
white tanks, the thunk of chunky boots, flex
of forearms as they ran thin fingers
through my fade, the delirious crush
of weight when they sank onto my lap.
What fool would wish for such a place now,
secret space that appeared on no map,
that offered not quite safety, only
its dim copy? What ingrate would spare
a thought for the bad old days when we
had to wander so far from home, roam
through fields and thickets, into hushed woods
to find our kin, our tribe? Still, it’s there
I learned the slide of hips on hips, grip
of a belt buckle under my hands
to draw a body close, how to lure
and hook with one long look in a room
brimming with long looks. It was the cage
where we hid until we could escape,
biding time behind those glittered walls.
It was no dive but a fall headfirst
into this ever after, which will
have us as we are or not at all.
Jennifer Perrine is the award-winning author of four poetry books: Again, In the Human Zoo, The Body Is No Machine, and No Confession, No Mass. Jennifer serves as an editor for Airlie Press and a guest editor for Broadsided Press, co-hosts the Incite Queer Writers reading series, and hosts The Occasion, a poetry radio show on KBOO FM in Portland, Oregon. When not writing, Jennifer leads workshops on creative writing, social justice, and intersectional equity. Read more at www.jenniferperrine.org.
