Two fingers latch ona proud pebble.How far can I stretch itbefore my fingers stiffen?How long until it curls into itself?digging at its core,hardening the longer I leave it out exposedFlush tight to nape of neckyou barely work to swallowthe slick of fingersPressing into old achesUrging blood to the surfaceLet tongue steamroll knotsTo the cracked exhaleof strand breakingAs I cradle neglected partsthat make letting go so painful,You remind me to invite onlythe gentlest close to us:for we grew into our sprawlfrom care, not brawnthis hairitage unravelsstrands of 4CYour magic is terrible:trailing kisses down my back,and soon falling to my feet,you too weather me undonecast adrift amongst the sheaTo have me at your beck and napeSuch tenderness you demand——
[to myself: a poem about the eroticism of 4c hair. Raw 4c hair has been characterized as hard, disrespectful, and unfeminine. I fully believe this is due to racism. In this poem I wanted to depict 4c hair as something else – the most sensitive, the most sensual, and the most needing of gentleness…]
