Joel Course

Afro Curls

I have history in these Afro curls,
I think. It is caught in knots of trouble
and seeps into my estuary, to be exhaled
as a meander of melanin.
I can’t escape its current.

I feel the reverence in these Afro curls,
I can. Hope that those who stand,
jaw wide and in awe, grasp the gravity
of the substance in my style.
I know I don’t yet, nor ever will.

I hold culture in these Afro curls,
they say. My rhythm is crooked,
dented by British populism, it was never
my strongest suit - physical affection.
I spit bars with a timorous demeanor.

I carry prejudice in these Afro curls,
I know. Mango seeds were sown here but
took root far from western seas
yet I walk with an anchor of bias.
I’ll never know if it’s the reason I’m sinking.

I walk with hate in these Afro curls,
I fear. My wiry scalp is a forceful reminder
of an ironic loss of liberty
that our differences will not dissolve.
I can’t trim ethnicity with a skin fade.

I’m filled with love for these Afro curls,
I am. Able to hear the laughter of my heritage
no matter how distant or dear
it fills me. With strength.
I know I am carried by my Afro comb.