I drank with some of them in college,
days of Cisco and whippits
lovely blur, the 90s
beer and cigarettes and bongwater-stained carpets.
They sit on a worn-out couch in the common room
listening to The Dead or Annie Lennox.
They smile, don’t smile, hold beer cans, rest their chin on someone else’s shoulder.
They wear oversized sweaters or cardigans,
torn jeans that show their bare knees,
rolled-up cuffs,
dirty socks without shoes,
a pink tie, combat boots, psychedelic stockings.
I’m not in this picture, but I am in this picture
white-presenting middle-class Latina
first-gen without knowing the words “first-gen”
I was there when I heard about River Phoenix
then Kurt Cobain
white boys who were supposed to mean something
they meant something to me because of their queerness
River in My Own Private Idaho, Kurt in a dress
I was a lesbian
yet sometimes I liked boys
an identity
incomprehensible at most other colleges or anywhere really
at least I could have a friend at this college with Bi Any Other Name
a book that gave me the words “lesbian-identified bisexual”
“lesbian with bisexual tendencies”
so for awhile, that’s who I was.
I’m not in this picture, but I am in this picture
is it the music, the clothes,
the pop culture
is it how we looked at the camera
how we looked for someone we didn’t know yet
someone we didn’t know.