Hallie Fogarty

Dyke Bar
I was alone in a dyke bar we’d traversed before
or maybe it was in a way all our dives
-Jenny Johnson, “In the Dream”
.

There are only 27 dyke bars left in the United States and the ghosts of last century’s lesbians are still lining up at the door, still sipping whiskey at the bar with red lipstick stains on their starched white collars, still holding out their bulky men’s watches to see the hour hand tick in time, still flirting with the butch at the door to get to the front of the line, still writing their numbers down on napkins with xx at the end, still slow dancing on the floor to Tracy Chapman with a femme in their arms, still hanging their leather jackets on the backs of bar stools, still fixing their makeup in their pocket mirrors, still fucking in the bathroom stalls, still making eyes at the handsome stud across the room, still tucking bandanas into the back pockets of their jeans, still aimlessly sipping their beers and peeling at the wet wrappers, still flicking at the tracks in the jukebox trying to find the perfect song, still shifting back and forth in their uncomfortable heels, still flirting with the bartenders, still, still, still.