Chocolate Afro-combs swirled with the taste of coconut, the nostalgia of childhood and
the rich beauty of hair in the black community.
P O E M
I’m sitting in between my Mothers knees,
And as she’s combing through my strands,
the weaker coils are sifted away,
the stronger remain.
The living room smells like blue magic,
An iconic grease that loves to kiss the sun
A film of it has coated the picks of the afro-comb down
to the fingers of my Mother's hands.
I remember the variety of them. Some combs had
skinnier limbs than others - some plastic, some broken,
some passed down...
But they all had a part to play in the curly congregation
atop pf my head.
I use coconut oil now.
I'm older, and I had to move away from home.
But every time I feel the humble shape of my comb,
I remember.
And this memory makes me glad.
P.N