On Being Brown

Naked and brown,

The lioness prowls while the lion sleeps.

She looks through his phones and pockets.

She's not crazy; she's betrayed.

His smiles taste different now.

She no longer loves to devour them.

She now hesitates

and hates everything in that moment.

Naked and brown,

She finds a two entree receipt.

Knowing how slim he is with money,

Knowing how he used to feed her full before,

Knowing how hungry she will become,

She buries the receipt and does not cry,

How many wom-spirits must fall and pile onto the street, before their gravity pulls me from the muscle memory of my mama---smile, hide, be useful, be friendly, kill only with kindness?

When will I fill my part of our cruel silence that deafens and kills our queer wom-elders?

When will I rip myself from complicated complicity and follow their ghosts trails to that place ruby and glistening and sweltering and singing?

I don't know shit about being purple.

Sometimes I feel golden brown,

Others just yellow with darker meat here and there.

Brown stick around, never worked for me,

'cause I was Southern and more than one drop.

I'm from the Hawaiian soft sands more than the Virginia red clay,

but I talk and walk slowly and blink hello's instead of turning my head.

My dad calls me a woman of two rivers.

I believe both are spat from brown mouths...

just one goes to presidential palaces and the rest go to downtowns

full of empty window stores and private parking lots.

Where do I go?