insh'allah & airport ode #1

insh'allah

We hug hard for five minutes on a Vancouver couch.
You lift me up. Giddy gloss of joy.
Were you in Detroit, girl?
Nah, girl, I can't cross the border! No border for me!
you chirp. Scream so loud when I tell you our friend played with my nipples for three hours.
I flash you my bra so you'll talk before me at our gig so I can soak up your light
before you go running to another plane to another BDS conference
My wedding is in four days! Maybe if it was a demonstration it'd be planned!
I can't even walk down the block without the cops yelling at me!
This border is bad meat, a hallucination, a wavering line
a stupid idea. Can't we blink and it'll be gone?
My brown skin marries brown craziness for a piece of paper 2.5 x 1.5 inches
with radio waves embedded in my face that I stick in my wallet
and I can cross it
you passport too, you can't.

Stick your toe over it, back.
Stick your tongue out at the border.
You wave your fingers in a heart around your chest
point it at me,
we hug each other tight on this couch, on this unceeded territory of each other
on the island of forty-seven minutes we have.
I say I'll see you soon you say I hope you will sweetie, I hope
I say, I'm holding you in my heart
travel safe to the BDS conference, girl
insh'allah
brown girl wings wrap around you, sister
brown girls wings hold us safe
lift us flying laughing uproarious brown girl birds flapping wings over the border
thumbing noses and laugh cracking crow throats
insh'allah

 

airport ode #1

the truth is, I ask for the opt out.
I ask for it every time.
I would rather be patted down by a 60sh white working class woman
I will studiously ma'am and ask about her day,
or a 20 year old brown woman with a labret piercing TSA makes her take out before work
then to sit sweating waiting for it to happen. Then to have beam of atoms shot through my body
and still get barked aside, patted down, tarot cards, cock and coconut oil wanded.
Once on my way to a redeye from a performance, dressed in a cocktail dress,
my searcher was a young brown queer woman
who said damn, it'll be easy to search you, you're hardly wearing anything at all
she complemented my mukkuthi
and because I am a frequent queerartbrownlady flyer, she remembered me from a week or two ago.
this is where we are in 2012:
I chat friendly and deliberate with the sister
who searches me
legs spread one in front of the other, back of the hand on sensitive areas
your zipper line, your bra
casual spread eagle in public as everyone one foot hops on shoes, puts laptops back in their cases.
Not too long ago, every airport line a panic attack, every airport four hours sweating armpit rank,
every bus crossing the small room and barking guards who don't ever pretend to be polite
who go through all your things and take you to the glass toilet
Every time they chirp or bark, "I'm going to pat your hair" I go deep inside and all the way out

one time you picked me up at the airport with a little tupperware of dinner
and you fucked me in long term parking bent over the hood of your car
I was too nervous to come but I appreciated both gesture:
you wanted to help me find my body back
in the middle of this place that hates it so

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