CAN WE TOUCH YOUR HAIR?
at the parades, everyone
wants to touch my hair.
on the corner
of st charles and marengo,
i am cold & smashed & puffy AF
when two white women
try to convince me
that they love my hair
no they really really do
they say because it is so
black and thick and curly
and soaking up all of the
water in the damp air.
the mousy one says
through an alabama drawl:
gawd, you can do so much with it
and her blonde friend says:
ya can’t do a damn thing with mine,
won’t even hold a curl.
she runs away to grab another friend
and says to her: stacey, isn’t it even
prettier than macy gray’s?
we just love her,
don’t we?
they circle me and ask:
can we touch your hair?
and then, suddenly,
just like my ancestors long ago,
i am pulled apart
soft
by pale hands
from all directions.
—from Rattle #71, Spring 2021
__________
Skye Jackson: “I was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana, where the events of this poem take place. One damp Mardi Gras night, two carousing white women approached me—and they asked me if they could touch my hair. In that moment, I felt like an object of fascination to them … almost like one of the brightly colored beads around their necks, thrown from a garish float. That night, I wrote this poem in response to the sense of horror I felt in that moment and in memory of my ancestors who would not have been given the privilege to refuse their touch.” (web)
