Negative Compliment or Contemplations on Racist Rhetoric

You don’t see the back of your own words
the ones grazing my face, the almost hum
in summon on your tongue, to dig a hole
& place me in, just so my brown body makes
sense to you, to lower in your vision, your scoop
as to think my bones for collection, for descent
as in a placement that you control. I shut my eyes,
rest my hand gently upon your shoulder, even
to my own shoulder; I’ve come to let you: let go
of the tick in the back of your throat, the murmur
of your fragility, of what makes you scared of what
I will take away. Open your eyes: see me: brown
& powerful & releasing this weight you left here
upon my brain, my capillaries, my nervous system.
These are yours. Take your words & let them burn
to ash, so the flame of them cinders the message &
stings your taste buds, so you inhale your own grit,
your own sour smell in your lungs, so your words may
become phoenixes & learn from the scars & sears
they inflicted, become all genders, grow out of each
of your ribs & spread wings of billowing tufts of plume
to release you—out of your own spinal axis—
the drill in the trench you continue to dig & dig & dig.