by Jessica Popeski

Type queer-friendly
to define your search.
A seven, or eight or nine,
bedroom house –
who needs a living room
or dining room,
nose the sofa between the
compost and the stove.
Four hundred, all in.
Coin op laundry.
First and last.
All expats, like yourself.
Several streets west of
where you hoped.
Terraced, older, pipes and
wires, like veins, exposed.
Walk to the door,
wearing the dress that
makes you look the smallest.
The Bathurst streetcar
jingles by.
Marigolds screw their
arrow buds through
cement path cracks,
grass tassels strung
to either side.
A slip of a t-girl answers,
soap-bar slim.
Animal print speedos,
flesh diamante-dotted,
super-glue pig-snouted,
feather-sprouting quaff.
Follow her.
Navigate the windowless
corridor cavities by the
blinking rhinestone eyes
that decorate a cosmos
down her spine.
The kitchen spills
sequins, glitter eyeliner,
boas: Drag Race ingredients.
Drink from the vessel
you’re handed.
Gin and lime wedges
in a Tupperware bowl.
It smoulders, warms you.
Lace a corset, braid a
stranger’s head of brown hair.
Voices talk over one
another, accented cacophony.
Laugh, stretch, yawn.
Wriggle deeper into your seat.
Know that you’re home.


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