To My Mother

You asked; "Do people ever say something to you?" I quietly answered; "No." But I would never tell you, About the man beneath the underpass who yelled "fucking queers." Or how as I leaned into her soft and forgiving lips, Only to retreat, noting my terrified look of despair mirrored on hers. I would never tell you; About the man at the barber shop who yelled "fucking queers." As I quickly withdrew my intwined hand from the very woman who makes me feel like I can take on the world, Yet when he towered over us, how quickly I needed reminding of that. I would never tell you; About the way that a white man in a clerical collar or red hat, threatens our very sense of safety. Or how I slowly remove my arm from the backseat of her chair, squeezing her shoulder as a sign of loving surrender in the name of her safekeeping. I would never tell you; About the fire that engulfs my heart in these moments, How I want to have the brave face, stand taller than the tower, and wrap her in tight safety. Yet, my raging fire, can only be put out by witnessing the pain of her tears. If you witnessed them too, you'd turn to passive protection over enraged action. I would tell you though; How I've never felt so empowered when that very q word rolled off of my tongue for the first time. How that very word, where I first found refuge has been turned as a weapon aimed at my heart, targeted at my agency, and my love. I would tell you though: That when I lean in for her soft kisses of comfort, hold her guiding hand, and feel the soft drip of her tears, that I am reminded that it was never a word that offered me refuge.