by k. ulanday barrett
homebois, we don’t write enough love poems.
we re-name ourselves izzie from Isabella,
casey from Cassandra, kay from Kathleen.
we run out of ink for our stories cuz we’ve been
running through doors of male and female, never satisfied.
we stunnin’ baggy jeans and bright colors over the sirens,
we stop cars and walk with stride that makes the concrete
self-conscious about it’s own stability.
hitting pavement at the tip-toes of summer,
there you go talkin’ about how you
need a woman barefoot and pregnant.
as I shudder wondering,
are you gonna find a stiletto ready to stab you
if the night sticks don’t come get you first?
asking- are you gonna be that bullet that is a mouth?
asking- are you gonna be that missile that blasts your lover
until s/he/ze misses you, even when you will both be in the same bed?
if we make ourselves harder than bone,
make us a legacy that is beyond all this.
cuz I’ve been running through doors of male and female,
never satisfied.
that makes you nervous doesn’t it?
are you worried, your palms sweaty
because I am NOT that kind of a man—
AG
stud
butch
boi
warrior
and that might make you obsolete, that means this whole system
needs a revision. that means, we have to ask ourselves daily
are you doing your homework?
homebois, we don’t write enough love poems to
ourselves. spell out our soft syllables unapologetically
letting the ferocity in us extend us a strength beyond
stiff jaw and cold silence, the stuff of abandoned buildings.
let us unfold the photos with us dipped in lace and dresses and laugh.
let the most tender cipher surround us not be our mother’s tears for
the loss of a daughter.
let us hold our breaths for the sakia gunns and the fong lee’s,
as it could easily be our sweat on this sidewalk.
let us adore the swiftness of kisses in moonlight rather than the
pummeling cusses of strangers scared of difference.
let the tensile ace bandage be a testament across this chest,
waving like prophets of a gender war.
let every poor black brown and yellow butch see her way into
a paintbrush, a camera, an uprock, a computer, and not into the hips of
hand grenades chucked on someone else’s homeland.
to every person who squirms in the bathrooms, classrooms,
and on stages next to me, let them know that this moment
is a clue of your queerness.
let them know my titas are at casinos burning this
American dream away too
let them know my kuyas christen their kid’s foreheads and
give me daps with the same hands.
let people understand that stowed in the arched brows and
infallible heart is a crease tucking a lullaby for our children,
a psalm for those who share our breath.
let them know that each time they make fun of us,
they could be in a feather boa, singing prince, showing their wives
some force that will drive them toward and not away.
let their children run up and down the city as the confident
queer kids who get scholarships to college for a GSA
they promoted. you, cursed to being the backward parent
they divulge to teachers they are
ashamed of.
let me not reveal my monster each time I hear
“I’ll fuck you straight.” let my fingers not be readied trigger,
grabbing sharp objects for stabbing back, to turn them into
the bloodiest meat they make of me with their pyramid of power.
let me walk away without harm, disbanding my razor-edge
that could cut their lifelines, slice steel song into their temples,
shear off their pride as soon as they start to unzip their pants.
let us know we can do this and make it clear: we choose not to.
let us know we can do this and make it clear: we choose not to.
if we make ourselves harder than bone,
make us a legacy that is beyond all this.
tita- tagalog for Aunt
*kuya- tagalog for older brother/cousin/friend
k. ulanday barrett is a performer, poet, educator and martial artist who connects life as a pin@y-amerikan queer navigating struggle, resistance, and laughter in the U.S. for booking and to see more of k’s work. See www.kaybarrett.net.