Tuesday Poem

Hair

I left Africa carrying my skin
and my father’s thick ringlets

braids were for children,
tussled locks for grown women

eleven and unaware

a black child in a white playground
learns new words

girls flock to touch a tamed head
weaved by loving hands

and chemical cravings set in

It’s your crown says my mother
whose gorgeous mane gets wrapped tight

rolled ready for feverish waves
that convert to straight

what a word

by Liyou Libsekal
from Poetry International Web

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