Shine, my crown.
I sat on the floor between her legs.
She gently combs with a hand that guides hair complex journey,
running shea butter in palms and on pans seven moons and seven suns.
She taught me the language of my hair tight, easily tangled curls,
roots that run deeper in the earth whispers of ancestors and seas ships and queens.
“It wasn’t about a style, it was a form of protest to say, I am not going to straighten my hair
anymore.”
Secrets revealed in strands that weave cultural tales and muffled histories,
my crown, the unbroken verve of defiance,
rebellious hair that is not quelled, except with the soothing ode of the early queens I am hair.
When the massa’s hot comb and tongs sank into hair he splinters she rebels:
I wear it natural, kinky, and twists in ‘fro in braids adorned with beads and gems
I am her.
When the Tignons smothered hair and oppressive knees descended corporate biases
spinning planets on a backward run tearing away traced copies of my face in the colored
sands, I was her.
When faux mocked and laughed and I choked below the weight of your ideals I was her.
I am timeless, I am hip, historical and deeply political
I am hair.