Is cabin creeping
Slave womon weeping
Massah’s son ain’t sleeping
Her descendants be reaping that
Good Hair
her brown hands gripping the trunk of a tree
He rides her dignity for all to see
Her children with bloodstained eyes look just like me!
At night they’d hear her begging ‘em
to just let herbe
Good Hair
Is hair tightly gathered in a fist
Though her pelvis was broken they called it a tryst
She’d promise to be a good slave...
but he would still insist
And many moons later
I sit and cry and twist
Good Hair
She grew too old and broken to warm the big house bed
so many vulnerable mulatto half-daughters
to keep his hunger fed
He said he’d kill ‘em if they defied him…
but they were already dead
Her story was never in
any of the His-story books I read
Good Hair
Is the embracing of
tiger-lily-white lies
The epitomy of a logic
we have an obligation to despise
Still the reason we cannot see
one another in silent,
downcast eyes
Good Hair
Is not just a theory
but the path to our demise
GOOD HAIR!
e.nina.jay
