content warning: homo/transphobic harassment and reclaimed slurs

we’ve wandered off the beaten path, 

let down by dowsing rods. 

the roads are paved with potholes 

and the shiny shells of nos, 

on a concrete car park corner 

in the sunday heatwave bright, 

a gang of lads with rubber fun 

are asking for a light. 

dean proffers up his offering 

as the one with facial scars 

leans in with lips pursed round a fag—

and then the heckling starts. 

you homosexual faggots! 

you trannies and you queers! 

we heel-turn and pick up the pace, 

try not to show our fear, 

unsure if they’re in hot pursuit, 

their slurs aimed at our backs, 

my hands and breath are shaking hard 

when ceri starts to laugh. 

the humour is contagious 

as we contemplate their words, 

our laughter rings out loud and clear 

and burns away our hurt. 

those threats are what we call ourselves—

so how could they offend us? 

we’re dykes and fairies, freaks and queens, 

with gorgeous, war-forged genders. 

dean says, “there’s more of us than them 

and i can roundhouse kick,” 

but the power of reclamation 

is what makes our skin so thick. 

we finally find the waterways 

and order ice and fruit, 

we strike up conversation 

with a man about his youth. 

the canal cools our humours, 

as does music from the bars, 

sophie buys me roses, 

wrapped up tight to hide the barbs.

i finally let my breath out 

and forget that bunch of teens, 

who called us fucking poofters 

like it’s 1993. 

we are homosexual faggots, 

we’re trannies and we’re queers, 

we’re the lifeblood of this city 

and we belong right here.