Hurt by me, they will not call meBrother. Hear me coming,And they cross their legs. As menAre wont to hate women,As women are taught to hateThemselves, they hate a womanThey smell in me, every muscle Of her body clenched

We do not recognize the bodyOf Emmett Till. We do not knowThe boy’s name nor the soundOf his mother wailing. We haveNever heard a mother wailing.We do not know the historyOf this nation in ourselves. WeDo not know the history of our-Selves on this planet becauseWe do not have to know whatWe believe we own.

I think of myself as a descendant of traditions that would not have wanted me. Right? So, as long as I'm a queer writer, I'm Whitman's descendant. And he can't do nothing about it.

There is the happiness you have And the happiness you deserve.

We few left who listen to the radio leaveOurselves available to surprise.

I don’t know whose side you’re on,But I am here for the peopleWho work in grocery stores that glow in the morningAnd close down for deep cleaning at night