Strands

food for thought

Can I touch your hair?

At least she asked.

At least.

At the very least

you should know

what you are touching.

 

my status

my job

my heart

my face

my peace.

 

But dang it’s so soft.

And dang their fingers are so quick to point.

We quickly learn how to scream behind a smile.

 

Your awe is a claw mark on our tongues.

 

Yes, it’s naturally curly-

no I can’t grow an afro-

Integrating interrogation into every morning on my way to class.

I know we’d all wear a hat if our hair could fit under one.

 

Have you looked at the products on the shelves lately?

Pantene because it was pretty cheap and I like it;

but the associate assured that I need the green olive oil

can with my face on it.

Half of my face.

But your hair isn’t kinky.

She seemed surprised.

But hey, they don’t make half and half shampoo.

 

Brushing is simple, simply when you have strands that sway with the smoothing of your fingers-

it’s not a battle for many, but you see me if you’ve won

a skirmish.

 

They said we gotta look presentable- “Business attire only”

What is the girl who has nothing but a hair tie supposed to do?

Straighten and straighten- killing the curves and frying the end of our wits

 pressing and squeezing out the very fabric of my identity to look

“presentable”.

That girl had more than a penny, Brazilian blow out blowing out every dollar she earned from tips just so she could look

           “presentable”.

The office doesn’t want afros,

but they touch it anyways.

I just cut 

it off.