Pride
I know what shame feels like—what it feels like to craft a mask
to paint it, to hold my head up with string like a marionette
to pretend like I know the meaning of self-love, self-trust
for who I am and who I love for a day or a month
when really I feel none.
but, today,
there is no pretending.
I walk with my head held up by the kind of strength
of those marching around me
and on the backs of their kind of courage
to be who they truly are.
and being here, with you,
gives me a kind of pride.
love light as feathers in the air, we
float from stonewall to the
stone-eyed pundits who sing of doom, and
blues.
our hearts all browned, blackened,
borrowed for a reddening child with heart hot
and head heavy. he sees
young people dancing like
gilded moths, goldened
slowly
by an orange sun.
love grins
greenly
for the new spring in his step.
lavender settles in the lungs
sweetly.
cheeks pink. hands aflush.
indigo crawls up the flag to an
inky
night twinkling with pride.