attic beams bearing strange fruit

chair on the floor and bruise at the loop

queer friends hanging in the silent eaves

strange fruit dangling from the wooden beams

detached act from the phobic repuke

they don’t know what their hate executes

sight of a rainbow: colors enmesh

then the sudden smell of caskets fresh

here is a fruit that for mothers weep

for fathers to bury, grief their kin will keep

reform must be had: change for people such

here is a

strange

and bitter

crop.