Brown love is getting the pat down but not the secondary screening

and waiting after you clear to make sure the Sikh man or

the Black woman or the hijabis behind you get through



Brown love is asking the Punjabi guy working at the starbucks knockoff

if all the tea sizes are still the same price

and he says no,

it hasn’t been like that for at least four years,

but he slips you an extra tea bag without talking about it.



Brown love is the unsmiling aunty

at the disabled immigration line

barking

anything to declare? No? No? Have a good day.

and your rice, semolina, kari karo seeds and jaggary all get through

even though they are definitely from countries

where there are insects that could eat america to the ground



Brown love is texting your cousin on whatsapp asking

if she’s ever had a hard time bringing weed tincture in her carry on 



brown love is a balm

in this airport of life



where, if we can scrape up enough money

we all end up

because we all came from somewhere

and we want to go there

or we can’t go to there but we want to go to the place we went after that

where our mom still lives even though we fight

or our chosen sis is still in her rent controlled perfect apartment

where we get the luxury of things being like how we remember

we want to go to the place we used to live

and even if gentrification snatched the bakery

with the 75 cent coffee where everyone hung out all night

we can still walk the block where it was

and remember



and the thing about brown love is, nobody smiles.

nobody is friendly. nobody winks. nobody can get away with that

they’re all silently working their terrible 9 dollar an hour

food service jobs where tip jars aren’t allowed

or TSA sucks but it’s the job you can get out of the military

and nobody can get away with being outwardly loving

but we do what we can



brown love is the woman who lets your 1 pound over the 50 pound limit bag go

the angry woman who looks like your cousin

who is so tired on the american airlines customer service line

she tags your bag for checked luggage

and doesn’t say anything about a credit card, she just yells Next!

Brown love is your tired cousin who prays you all the way home

from when you get on the subway to when you land and get on another.

This is what we have

we do what we can.

Oh, a hidden power is in my breast, 

    A power that none can fathom; 

I call the tides from seas of rest, 

They rise, they fall, at my behest; 

And many a tardy fisher’s boat, 

I’ve torn apart and set afloat, 

     From out their raging chasm. 

For I’m an enchantress, old and grave; 

      Concealed I rule the weather; 

Oft set I, the lover’s heart a blaze, 

With hidden power of my fulgent rays, 

Or seek I the souls of dying men, 

And call the sea-tides from the fen,

      And drift them out together. 

I call the rain from the mountain’s peak,

     And sound the mighty thunder; 

When I wax and wane from week to week,

The heavens stir, while vain men seek,

To solve the myst’ries that I hold, 

But a bounded portion I unfold, 

     So nations pass and wonder. 

Yea, my hidden strength no man may know;

     Nor myst’ries be expounded;

I’ll cause the tidal waves to flow, 

And I shall wane, and larger grow, 

Yet while man rack his shallow brain, 

The secrets with me still remain, 

      He seeks in vain, confounded.