Jay Ward

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Best Poem of Jay Ward

Hairby: Elizabeth Acevedo

My mother tells me to fix my hair. And by "fix, " she means straighten. She means whiten. But how do you fix this ship-wrecked history of hair? The true meaning of stranded, when trusses held tight like African cousins in ship bellies, did they imagine that their great grand-children would look like us, and would hate them how we do? Trying to find ways to erase them out of our skin, iron them out of our hair, this wild tangle of hair that strangles air. You call them wild curls. I call them breathing. Ancestors spiraling. Can't you see them in this wet hair that waves like hello? ...

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