Leather Ladies

In a flea-market leather shop with my girlfriend

browsing biker jackets, journals, gun holsters

the smell of sun-warmed dirt, sweet, floral smoke,

an artificial pollination all-consuming

my hands wrap around her hips

sizing a belt against her caramel skin

The shopkeeper side-eyes us

above her table of tools—mallets, awls, edge bevelers

the shaky leather hole punch struggles

between her calloused fingers

succumbed to arthritis from years of labor

Just then

as frustration furrows her brow,

another woman, late 60s, maybe 70s

small frame, same tough alligator hands

weathered and rugged

emerges from the back room,

brushing a hand along the shopkeeper’s lower back

leaning in close, bodies pressed

intimate over tanned leather

The whispered words, “don’t worry, honey”

so faint they disappear in the sound waves

like stale air, stuffed in a closet—

The woman, punching belt holes,

suddenly looks up,

calculating company

that arithmetic of safety

quantifies friend over foe

nods that familiar nod in our direction

as if to say, “I see you.”

It is so hard not to see them

Stuck like a sore thumb

Their own storefront surrounded

by Confederate flags, red MAGA hats:

hate-fueled propaganda

wrapping a bible belt around their throats

While they steal back the space between their bodies

one belt loop at a time

I like to imagine these women,

outlaws in San Francisco

rumbling Harleys between their thighs

riding the Castro strip

leather jacket–clad

with the gear cog Dykes on Bikes logo

emblazoned on the shoulders

Or, maybe christening their first shop

in Andersonville, Chicago

making love on the counter

serenaded by Cyndi Lauper

knocking over

custom ticket orders:

assless chaps, chest harnesses, zip-up face masks

for the Boystown leather bar

those sweaty leather lovers at the Cell Block

Maybe even

plotting a feminist revolution

in West Village

blinding disco lights, women’s bodies

bouncing and grooving

at Bonnie & Clyde’s

while activists plan fundraisers

hustling leather bullwhips, riding crops

ball gags and handcuffs to pay

for their feminist zines and

women centers

I can picture these ladies,

Amber-glazed

Weaving together strands

of leather, sands of time

—as elders, they have

seen what hate can do

ripping its way through

our community

our people.

At the checkout counter, my girlfriend

jars me out of the

chronicles of history

small talking with the leather ladies

she tells them,

“Just the belt.”