Gruene Hall, Mid-August

In the Hill Country we pass as sisters
two stepping in the dance hall on Americana night.

High pitched tin roof high pitched leather boots.
Bolo ties hold too tightly on each other’s waists,

gliding on the bright blue neon of a Bud Light sign.
I don’t drink and drive, but my mind swerves.

These kids they flock to dancehalls to Friday lit stadiums
sweating singing fingering each other in Hanes white T’s.

Mothers with bedazzled teeth call us kissing dykes with their eyes
with their crows feet with their Lone Star drawls.

Call it southern inhospitality call it spit on my clit
in the swinging door bathroom.

Down South I grew up on shredded brisket,
pulled pork stuck in front teeth gaps for days.

I grew up part of this buffet: slaughtered, slathered,
ripped in half. A gay baby back rib.

It hurts so good knowing we can’t touch here,
unhinged, unraveled in the corner by the jukebox.

Honey, you like when I smell of the Gulf.
Body swampland, stagnant water, dead mosquitos.

Ky Lohrenz is a queer poet who has recently moved back in with her parents in Houston. As a recent graduate of Kenyon College, she works as an Associate Poetry Editor at Sunset Press. Check out her poetry in streetcake magazine.