Par­lia­ments on the Stoop


for Fa­tima, af­ter Or­lando

There’s noth­ing like be­ing two kinds of sore-hipped brown femmes a week af­ter a hate crime, smok­ing Par­lia­ments on the stoop out­side a queer Black femme birth­day party with lots of glit­ter house looks.

It’s safe to be in­side, soft, but we come out­side to be bad brown femmes look­ing at the moon smok­ing in the bushes like we trained for at ev­ery wed­ding we’ve ever been to. We’re watch­ing the Is­lam­o­pho­bia me­ter go up, trac­ing fre­quen­cies of hair pat-downs and panic at­tacks, say­ing, It feels just like af­ter 9/11, girl, say­ing, I think the gov­ern­ment paid him to do that shit, he ain’t ISIL.

He’s prob­a­bly some clos­eted gay cousin who’s an ass­hole to his wife like we’ve known plenty of in our lives.

The queer Mus­lim heal­ing gath­er­ing was in the base­ment of an in­ac­ces­si­ble bar, we left af­ter five min­utes.

Bad brown girls al­ways clus­ter in a bush suck­ing fire and blow­ing smoke at the moon, at what we never know how to sur­vive but some­how, some­times, do.

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