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.