CHRYSTOS • Self-educated artist and writer, born to a native American Menominee father and a European mother. Proud lesbian for twenty-nine years.
From her book Dream On, Press Gang Publishers, Vancouver, 1991.
ALONE
IN THE QUEER BAR WITH ICE WATER THAT COST $1.50
TWENTY YEARS AND HUNDREDS OF GIRLFRIENDS LATER
I STILL
DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO THIS
NEVER WILL
SO I ENJOY THE CLOSELY SWAYING WOMEN'S BODIES
FLICKER OF SIMMERING DESIRE
IN THIS ONE PLACE WHERE WE CAN SORT OF BE
OURSELVES
THAT IN EVERY TOWN IS ALWAYS SMOKY, TACKY & NOT QUITE CLEAN
WHERE CLASS & RACE DIM SOMEWHAT IN RED SPINNING LIGHTS
A HAZE OF BOOZE
SOBER
THIS IS NOT MY HOME
BUT THERE'S NO PLACE ELSE TO GO
IN A STRANGE CITY
THE BORDER RAZOR
At U.S. customs nervous I know I'm going to be inspected
because the rich american white couple in front of me
match every nice tourist ad you've ever seen
& the line behind me is all white
so I stick out like a sore red thumb after the hammer misses
Holding my breath even though l know it makes it worse
I move forward juggling sleeping bag, old lacket, worn
suitcase & overflowing shopping bag
He wants my driver's license & punches me into his computer
I panic
He reads for too long giving me too much time to wonder
if a radical Indian activist can cross the border
or an ex-mental patient or someone with a dusty
but served jail record
I can't remember if Lesbians are illegal
Finally with a reluctant shrug & a piercing stare he lets
me go
still suspicious he watches me stagger back to the bus
I wonder how long until the time when I'll be kept
& if I can speak
what I'll say in my defense
VIJAVA DABBE • Born in 1 952, an active member of Samata, a women's group in Mysore, and teaches Kannada at Mysore University.
From: Women Writing in India Vol. II: The 20th Century, edited by Susie Tharu and K. Lalita.. The Feminist Press, The City University of New York, 1993. Translated by.Tejaswini Niranjana
MIRUGUVA GORIGALU
(Glittering Tombs)
Who waits until they're born?
Sacks of dreams atop a fetus
Fetuses atop the sacks of dreams---
do you raise an eyebrow?
They waited
for the infant to emerge.
The baby, not seeing the tomb,
breathed deeply
for those who had faith.
Then shrieked and cried
to shatter their faith.
The mother-in-law put
into her lap this woman
born for her son.
Unable to make her cry
the infant gurgles
blinks its eyes.
As warm dumplings
slid down the throat
Mother's promises
stuck
and began to pound.
The mouth opened
but said nothing.
Year after year
a new dress for the New Year
a purse for the arm
a rose for the hair
so it ran ... without stopping.
Around ten in the morning
people began to throng the streets.
Father in the easy chair
passing his hand over his head
made a vow about family honor
tried to believe.
It wept
two days
in a darkened room.
A thread that cuts
through the friends'
bunch of dreams.
Their life buried in this one
simmering in the woes they embraced
the word-corpse slept.
In front of this nearly-old
woman
who sits splitting
the eyelashes of those
forty bygone springs,
the glittering tomb winks.
Farida Begum
(Mrs. Farida)
People have not seen Farida
without her purdah.
Day, night, college, factory
the street, elsewhere, nowhere
have people seen Farida
without her purdah.
Farida's mother
roams the streets in a cotton sari.
The mother's mother wore
an unwearable piece of cloth—
this everybody Knows.
Perhaps you can get
a glimpse of Farida's eyes
through the lace in front.
If it flaps a little in the breeze
she sweats and feels faint
as though it had fallen.
The little groups outside hotels and shops
simper as they dream of the fair beauty
behind the black curtain.
Laughing inside the veil
she turns
into another alley