CROSSWORD, OR ODE TO A MAN’S IDENTITY | a poem by Sunday T. Saheed

for every crossroad that diverges
comes a canon loaded with questions 
of identity / of tagging myself to 
a name. this is in the belief that,
whatever carries blood around must
be named. the sun dragged its rays
to the feet of this poem, where a
hand pokes a finger to my turban, &
identifies me — you're a fucking
muslim terrorist! a moon disassembles 
at the mouth of this poem, where a
hand pokes a finger to my skin, &
identifies me — you're a negro, shit!
the stars crawled what remains of
their twinkles to the cranium of this
poem, where a hand pokes a finger
to my chest, & says: you do breathe
a mother ferries her love like paper-
boat to light this poem. a hand pokes 
a finger to my vein. identified me,
as human, as dangerous, as queer,
as everything a man is named after