Emily Ramser
the 1950s’ lesbian pulp fiction bookcase at recycled books
each shelf filled with tales
of women lazily touching
each other’s thighs and forearms
with soft wandering fingers
in back alley motel rooms
and army barracks,
kisses hidden in shadowed corners,
hands held under the covers,
side glances in public spaces,
gentle hands cupping breasts
late at night with slow and gentle movements,
climaxes filled with women screaming
women’s names and institutionalizations and suicides
because they said
no woman could be both
happy and homosexual