Hidden in haze of cigarette,
queer Ashkenazi, wrinkled leather boots
thud melancholy on the San Francisco shores.
Orphans, like ghosts, are
only seen by one another,
not quite at home, not quite a visitor.
On a rooftop in New Jersey,
lipstick on a liquor bottle
I make up my grandmother's forgotten face –
we're mostly dead now, reflecting pools
and post-modernists – dry candlesticks and faded recipe cards.
The red past,
the red states,
the read stories of where we came from,
not quite the Old World, not quite the New.
On a porch between ethnicities
on a wooden step between faiths
half drunk and half me,
on a side street between genders,
not quite a man, but not quite a woman,
this is where to find me.
Robin Sinclair is a gender-queer writer of mixed heritage and mixed emotions, currently living in New York City. Robin's work has been published in various journals, including Gatewood Journal, Shot Glass Journal, Black Heart Magazine, and Pidgeonholes. Find Robin at RobinSinclairBooks.com