My First Act of Queer Resistance

“Safety” is an illusion.

The Roy G. Biv in this poem an allusion,

your Instagram post with the president 

next to the dead’s most gossiped 

about predator, an undaunted 

quick wit I wished I had

in my back pocket.

I scroll past, don’t linger,

eye contact trips the algorithm.

Then I am not “safe,” right?

But, fuck safety,

the illusion I’ve held in the suburbs 

of red Indiana–peeking out queerly,

tip-toeing blackly.

I cannot claim to want a chance

at justice, real and holy-sanctioned

power if I cannot look at

truth down the barrel.

My ancestors–excuse the trauma healing,

had stepped fear-first in waterways

on the route to a life that now necessitates

that I stand for all that is faithful.

And that brick was not thrown

so that I could cower behind my phone, 

fingers frozen, eyes diverted in the name

of the actual cowards that want

to transfer their fear to those they think

they have power over. 

Those were the former days–

they are passing.

I will not mark myself “safe”

when there is no safety here.

But I will stand where I can–

my first act of queer resistance.