Afro

By: Jazzmon L. Cobb

The strands which grow against Newton's red fruits

Form twisting roads of curls constricting peace

Rigid texture mimics my oppressed Roots.

Shape of my dark globe veto cotton fleece

Fingers never granted the right to run

Coils of hair chain the curious hands

up, don't shoot! My presence, a loud shot gun.

The comb unable to tame Egypt's quicksand

Wild black thickets, deep and tangled to hide 

secrets, because inked feathers cover my ears

Sunless cashmere echo African pride

Deceitful ringlets denying all fears

And yet,

Straight hair is praised for its luster and shine,

I love having soul, and hair that is mine!