This is titled “theory is not a cold, biting bitch.”
This is also titled “theory is a cold, biting, angry bitch –
has no interest in defending herself, and why,
is proud to be one.”
Feminist theory found me when I was nineteen,
taught me to taste the tears (shook me, shoved me)
of those whose broken bones were political rallies,
whose raped bodies and stubborn, angry tongues
were written in ink and located in books I could shut.
Queer theory found me when I was twenty:
turns out, heteronormativity wears steel toed boots.
I had known what closets were, had known and read,
had blustered and bowed my head:
but I had not kissed your lips till then.
Theory is a cold, biting bitch – and I’m glad for her.
We were queer before books, and we’ll be queer long,
Long after they’re dust and we’re dust, holding them.
But you mutter compulsory heterosexuality, and I smile –
I mumble Vita and Virginia, and you smile –
And in the blanket fort of our imaginary home,
With the shitty TV and grumpy dog, we’ll leave some takeout,
So when these inky words, this history behind us, in us
Lumbers towards the kitchen, she can crack a smile too.
* Image source: rabble.ca