Self-Portrait as Lesbian Artifact

In the neighborhood Rite Aid, museum
of my gay awakening, I was browsing
butterfly mascara as her voice spoke
through Bruno Mars. By this point,
everything sounded like her, even
Bruno Mars. I considered
foundation against the crumple
of cash in my pocket, searching
for my skin, in the wrong
jeans, in the wrong
shoes. Tickets were half-off
and visitors lined up to watch.
A plaque stood
in the Rite Aid parking lot,
where I learned to bike
when I was six, my father
running beside me, pavement
kissing my knees, gravel
reaching up to hold me. Now
I needed to replace my lavender
deodorant, whose slickness made me
anxious, and I needed to get home
before they noticed
I was gone, and I needed
to be less angry,
so I thought of her,
phone shading her face, curled in bed.
A shard of light shot
through the exhibition window.
Laid me bare in the center
of that stupid aisle.
She was singing to me
about being locked
out of heaven
when the door snapped open.
My six-year-old self,
who rose from the road
each time, tinsel streaming
from the handlebars,
stood beside me and clutched
my hand. Together, we stared
into a locked-up aisle,
our bodies winking
in the dark glass, but of course
we were too afraid
to speak the words out loud.

Arushee Bhoja is a queer Indian-American poet from California. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Stone Circle Review, Dishsoap Quarterly, BRAWL Lit, and elsewhere.