Divinity flows through my fingertips, practiced precepts slip from my lips, I lean back into my mother’s grip let heaven part my hair feel the sun’s glare— And breathe.
A hot comb separates dawn and dusk seven days before another change to the husk… Divine wrath smells like chemical straighteners— stings like compliments from strangers.
Hands placed upon a head. Blessings prayed for the dead. Remember the many that bled for styles reborn for the future
God is a mother’s hand turning my head this way and that way to braid my future so it frames my face right.
Comments