my lover is a woman & when i hold her feel her warmth     i feel good     feel safe

then—i never think of my family’s voices never hear my sisters say bulldaggers, queers, funny     come see us, but don’t     bring your friends          it’s ok with us,          but don’t tell mama          it’d break her heart never feel my father turn in his grave never hear my mother cry Lord, what kind of child is this?

II.

my lover’s hair is blonde & when it rubs across my face it feels soft     feels like a thousand fingers     touch my skin & hold me          and i feel good

then—i never think of the little boy who spat & called me nigger never think of the policemen who kicked my body & said crawl never think of Black bodies hanging in trees or filled with bullet holes never hear my sisters say white folks hair stinks don’t trust any of them never feel my father turn in his grave never hear my mother talk of her backache after scrubbing floors never hear her cry Lord, what kind of child is this?

III.

my lover’s eyes are blue & when she looks at me i float in a warm lake     feel my muscles go weak with want          feel good          feel safe

then—i never think of the blue eyes that have glared at me moved three stools away from me in a bar never hear my sisters rage of syphilitic Black men as guinea pigs     rage of sterilized children          watch them just stop in an          intersection to scare the old          white bitch never feel my father turn in his grave never remember my mother teaching me the yes sirs & ma’ams to keep me alive never hear my mother cry Lord, what kind of child is this?

IV.

& when we go to a gay bar & my people shun me because i crossed the line & her people look to see what’s wrong with her     what defect     drove her to me

& when we walk the streets of this city     forget and touch     or hold hands          & the people          stare, glare, frown, & taunt               at those queers

i remember     every word taught me     every word said to me     every deed done to me          & then i hate i look at my lover & for an instant     doubt

then—i hold her hand tighter     & i can hear my mother cry.     Lord, what kind of child is this?

Poem: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/my-lover-woman