The Queen Issue (v. 17)

To be gay in the tone of brown boy
Is to love his skin in the dialect of morgue
It is to braille each kiss
Lowered hand sign “I love you”
Limit eye contact
Crutch your knees
Avoid him in public
To be gay in the tone of brown boy
Is to sing a song in the hue of Dangerous
Of fairy
Of pussy
Of fists with tempo faster than a faggot can sing to
To be choir of slit throat mocking birds
Swallowed by starving cages
It is to mold your voice a shovel
Dig deep
And spit your spirit in the pit
His face
Hidden in the brass of men that would steal the solo
Of the songs you sung in the shower
Of the boy’s hands humming to the back of your skull
Of the melody you memorized in his back
The night sex became two part harmony
To concrete the soprano in your bones
To rearrange the joto in your pitch
To thicken your walk to the sound of rumors
You pray will never shake the wrong ears
It is to wear your father’s shoulders like an untuned guitar
Perform for everyone but you
To be gay in the tone of brown boy
Is to leave every note in the hands of your brothers
To let their thick mouth comments drown the tone of truth
Your body will become the dead man’s spiritual
That sings its self to sleep every night
A sweet melody of melanin and spit
Of brown and burning
Of sink or sink
Brown boy gay is the song sung through the crack and agony of Brown Boy bones