You could buy drugs here
without ever thinking of die rosa-winkel
without contemplating Paragraph 175 and American sodomy laws.
You could collect bent cigarette butts from within the weeds,
forgetting how the Band Played On,
with a negligence that hoped for a passive genocide.
You could overdose right here
without a god damn name
unless a corporate sponsor used it on a float in June.
You could die laughing here,
at the absurdity of a co-opted history,
quietly fading as business buzzes onward down the Castro.
Robin Sinclair (they/them) is a queer, trans writer of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. Their work can be found in various journals, including Trampset, Luna Luna Magazine, Black Telephone Magazine, The Daily Drunk, and Across The Margin. Find Robin at RobinSinclairBooks.com and on Twitter at @ghost_of_mary.