It’s been nine months since I’ve wanted to [ ]. I could’ve birthed a copy of myself but one night I saw my body unzip crown to heel. Thick goo and depth. On my sixth anniversary of baldness I met Claire —grayed in the fro and proud of me. Her mother was a cosmetologist. Every Black mother was a cosmetologist. My mothers’ mother was a singer. Rumor has it she knew Motown Men. Her mother lived in Tennessee. My mother’s mother is lost ashes forgotten between moves. I can’t be a cosmetologist. These hands never did grip quite right. My eldest sister was a hairdresser, could’ve gone pro if school was her thing. If she was still here I’d be under the dryer every weekend. She’d have alphabetized oils marked on mason jars. Would’ve been a hot girl every summer binging Insecure with bottomless mimosas on Tuesdays. Hell, I might’ve become a cosmetologist. I guess that’s what these deaths do.
Lineage
A friend of a friend asks if he’s Black since his family’s from Egypt. Wants to know where my family’s originally from.
(He wants permission to say it.)
My family’s from Murfreesboro, TN. My great great greats were enslaved. We all got two names.
I’ve been tokenized and weaponized. No legacy of resistance to stand on. Still, my hair is unprofessional. Voice too loud. White people ask if Detroit is safe, if I’ve seen a homicide.
Everyone on my block knows
a firework from a gunshot, violence is what violence does. Smiley
who sweeps the BP could be our
long lost cousin. Give him a dollar so he can sing today, pay for this concert or pay for his funeral. But don’t stare. Don’t pity.
I belong unto myself.
My ancestors known and lost
are loved, always.
The conceit is not my trauma
or the rebrand. You must know,
my mothers have names and my father has blame. I have the responsibility to carry on.
