Linda Pastan, The Months

Lenin, Langston Hughes.

“lesbian texts are passed from hand to hand and mouth to mouth between lesbians. they are located on the skin, in the look, in the geography of the palms of the hands. lesbian literature exists in pieces: in flyers, newsletters, magazines, chapbooks, bathroom stalls, notes, novels, e-mails, love letters, on tiny scraps of paper. lesbian literature also exists in texts that don’t seem to have anything at all to do with lesbians or literature: a customer copy of an American Express receipt, dinner for two at Café Aroma; a torn pack of Trojans that once housed bright red lubricated condoms; a box of Celestial Seasoning’s raspberry zinger tea; a matchbook cover with “Lario’s” on the outside and “call me soon, baby” on the inside. lesbians live in houses with writings on the wall that indicate the way to lesbianism. these texts abound but they are offered only to lesbians; this is why lesbian literature seems scarce. lesbian literature is the unwritten bestseller that all lesbians are reading, all the time: it consists of our every moment.”

— tatiana de la tierra, “Lesbian Literature”

Sometimes you think, There is a wasp in my bed.

Of course there isn’t a wasp in your bed. Your bed is neatly made, your windows are closed, and it’s October—late in the season for wasps. Why would there be a wasp in your bed?

You have no evidence to think there is. You search your mind for a reason for your suspicions, but there is nothing. There is a wasp in my bed, you think again, stubbornly.

There isn’t. Of course there isn’t. You are a superstitious meat computer malfunctioning once again, thin-slicing false positives because millions of years of evolution have primed you to detect threats far more often than they are actually present in your privileged modern lifestyle. There is no lion lurking by the dumpster, there are no wolves hiding in the grass—there is no goddamn wasp in your goddamn bed, no matter what your primitive defensive software insists to the contrary.

You climb into bed, smugly satisfied with the victory of sapient logic over reptilian fear, forebrain over cerebellum.

And then the wasp in your bed stings you between your legs.

"Blue Horses" Mary Oliver

I like the word gay. But I like “lesbian” better.

I like it because of Sappho of Lesbos, a lesbian and a Lesbian whose memory reminds us that women who loved women existed long before any time on earth that any living person can remember.

I like it because of Sappho’s poetry, the sweet prose she wrote for the goddess Aphrodite, the goddess of love. Aphrodite has her counterpart in the Roman goddess Venus, whose symbol has evolved to represent the woman, the female, the feminine.

I like it because of its culture and history. Butch, fem, stud, dyke. Bars where women drink and dance and laugh and kiss other women. Boston marriages. Women’s colleges. They wanted Ellen to get a puppy but she wanted to kiss a lady.

It hasn’t all been pretty. This word has been taken from us, made into a fetish, a porn category, fuel for men’s libidos. Hysterical. Asocial. Deviants. Lesbians.

But that makes me love it all the more—to spite them, to spite the men who salivate over us, to spite the churches that rally against us, to spite it all. But I wear this badge for more than just spite. I wear it for love. Love for women, love for our history, love for love for… lesbian.

It’s not a dirty word. It’s beautiful, and I am proud to call myself a lesbian.