Back when drag was fashion
and a woman in baggy pants
and a necktie could rule
any room—when irony still
had a pulse, and authenticity
didn’t have too many syllables—
there was joy. We learned
that it was okay to be the only one
singing, okay to flee the stifling
sexism of the board room,
okay to pick up the black stones.
We could suffer to love or love
to suffer or suffer without love
or simply be overwhelmed
by it all, get stoned, sing Beatles
songs, and weep in the bathtub.
We could laugh, and we could cry,
and there were no algorithms
to track our tears, fix our broken
psyches, or teach us how
to dress like a modern woman.
Now we search an endless beach,
looking for our lost intuition,
wondering if we’ve cried all our tears,
afraid that we’ll never stop crying.
Context is blown away like the sand,
and we don’t even recognize
our own tribes. Perhaps someday,
we’ll put on our derbys and vests
and sing like we used to. Until then,
we must step out of our comfort zones
and go over our lines on our own—
because Diane Keaton has left us.
Diane Elayne Dees
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Diane Elayne Dees would like to hear them
