Day 164.

Love Poem for Queer Brownies






Am I still allowed to love you?
Even though we've seen each other in the wild now, hair matted and underwear peeking out over the tops of our pajama pants.
Not expecting to be seen somehow, but caught in our resting state. Am I still allowed to love you, then?
... having happened unexpectedly upon your morning face? Because it's uncontrollable, this love.
For one, I love your body.
I love your queer, brown body.
Stories about the corn your ancestors cultivated and ate, manifested in the jiggle of your ass.
The legacy of the times those men touched you where you didn't want to be touched, showing in your shielded walk (to the trained, queerbrownsurvivor eye)
The cakes you and your roommates baked for each other after breakups, showing up in your round belly.
The songs that remind you of wherever and whomever feels like Home feeding through your earbuds as you smoke a cigarette and try to keep your sway to

level:imperceptible. I see you, though.

Even though we imagine ourselves invisible, plugged in to our little handheld machines, like ostriches.
Everybody can still see you. And I'm looking.
I see your bold, brown swagger, even when you don't know you're doing it, being it.

Am I still allowed to love you, having seen you, out in the wild like this, and not through my handheld or transportable machine?
Through which you are shiny, polished, exposing an ankle here and a wisecrack there, with a side of some political action you want me to participate in.
Happening upon you in the world like this, I see you as your mother saw you,
Waking you in the mornings to get you to school.
Un-made-up. Eye-crusties.
Unwashed and
Perfect.