Pride

Meg Yardley

We tread a rough cumbia step
on the asphalt confettied with cigarette butts,
sticky patches, blotches of night.

Warm faces witness us. Whitney Houston
wants to feel the heat with somebody.
The crowd sings it out.

Glittering humans squeeze through
with easy smiles: “Sorry,” they say
as we angle our shoulders to make room.

We smile back: “No, you’re good!” After
their hips brush past, we wink
at each other. No, seriously: you’re good.

Although we can’t see the moon in the alley of sky
above us, we feel the tender swelling
of her crescent when we glance up:

the curve of our eyelashes sweeping around.
Not afraid to let our gazes linger. Not afraid
to lift our bare arms and show feathery hair.

The absence of fear is a presence:
soft like a cat’s fur, alive and sinuous. Our hands and feet
luxuriate in its texture.

Flimsy metal barricades only halfway protect us
from cars, sirens, angry voices. Still,
we are not fragile now.

Meg Yardley lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her poetry and short fiction have recently appeared or are forthcoming in publications including Gulf Coast, Salamander, SWWIM, West Trestle Review, and Vol. 1 Brooklyn.