Black hair - Jean M. Hodges

Easter Dressing, a poem by Jean M. Hodges

The cream was soft and nice and affirming,

Brown arms and storms fingers kneading my through my curls like fresh bread dough.

And I try to stay as still as possible as my mother, auntie or grandma,

Spin my hay-hair to gold.

I go thru the fires of hot-comb purgatory.

Stay still – BRUSH SMACK – HOLD STILL.

You hold your ears!

Wrap up them up like Christmas presents,

Sleep as still as Jesus in his tomb,

Wake up just as glorious.

Treat the second-degree burns with love and cocoa butter.

Hours of toil to get the curls,

Pinned up in a dress your Nana got on sale,

Get so pretty that even,

Even the white girls dare to get jealous.

Your Mama trades look with the pastor,

Hoping you don’t look too grown for the church as y’all find your seat.

THE END

Original publish year: 2017

(c) Jean M. Hodges

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Very Black Hair, a poem by Jean M. Hodges

I was born with very black hair

I used to worry that I would wear it out

Because only clowns wear colorful afros

And braids don’t hurt that much if you don’t keep them on your mind for too long

Ugh, what if all came out too long?

How many hours would I spend calming it down?

Why do we always have to come out so loud and brown?

Locs as long and curly as tumbleweeds

Not pale and smooth like the waterfalls people tend to fawn over

What happens if it fawns over?

Crinkles like a shape of paper and glue?

Does the diversity of shapes confuse you too?

It that why you want to touch it, to check it’s real?

I was born with black hair

And it is very real

I keep it however I want

Because I like it, in spite of it

And it’s all mine.