Black Root
Khanaja Scott
My sister once told me
that my hair was like wool
The same fabric that grew
from the skull of our beloved,
holy Jew. Son of God,
Father in hue
Upright, my roots
Down my back if
abused - the only time
anyone ever sees
within me: beauty
Nappy and kinky and
thick and rough
A forest, a battle, an
opponent so tough that
We use chemical warfare to tame:
Rancid, pungent,
malevolent white stuff
We blame her if she withers
Kill her if she is to refuse
'Cause no matter how much
we try, she does not
behave as she is supposed to
- so we replace her, ironically
with what our ancestors grew
Or perhaps give her an implant
of which she is allergic to
She is the inside, the bud
they don't want to bloom
So they fill her lungs with poison
Burn her skin with fire
It breaks her heart and she
wishes she could scream
Why am I hated
Why am I made
weak when I am
by far, the most strong?
I am no witch
No wicked cast spell
upon you
You praise me on the head
of a doll and your Jew
But I rest atop you and
you treat me as a worrisome
weed and pull me from my
root