(Brown Skin, sings India Arie “I can’t tell where yours begins,       I can’t tell you where mine ends” She dips into the top of the cream, leaving the sting of the slur behind.)

Here in this intimate and language-less distance is the raw opening of an echo resonating between us. A black and brown or black or the brown in the reek of the cultural carving. The tag, the tanning, the trouble of the color line, its assumption, its conceit, draws a line between.

Here is the densest crush, the space conjured to draw up the thing that brings all the kids to the stage, the page, the party.                                      Who is going to tell you who and what queerness does to the collective?

This (hard) space 

                       is full of the bottom.

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