Now that my afro’s as big as Shaft’s
I feel a little better about myself.
How it warms my bullet-head in Winter,
black halo, frizzy hat of hair.
Shaft knew what a crown his was,
an orb compared to the bush
on the woman sleeping next to him.
(There was always a woman
sleeping next to him. I keep thinking,
If I’d only talk to strangers. . .
grow a more perfect head of hair.)
His afro was a crown.
Bullet after barreling bullet,
fist-fights & car chases,
three movies & a brief TV series,
never one muffled strand,
never dampened by sweat–
I sweat in even the least heroic of situations.
I’m sure you won’t believe this,
but if a policeman walks behind me, I tremble:
What would Shaft do? What would Shaft do?
Bits of my courage flake away like dandruff.
I’m sweating even as I tell you this,
I’m not cool,
I keep the real me tucked beneath a wig,
I’m a small American frog.
I grow beautiful as the theatre dims.
© Terrance Hayes
READ MORE POEMS BY THIS POET:
- “On Some Level, I’m Always Full Of Girl Scout Cookies”
- Wind in a Box
- What it Look Like
- “Seven Of The Ten Things I Love In The Face”
- American Sonnet for Wanda C.
- from American Sonnet for My Past and Future Assassin
- “The Difference Between Stay Woke & Don’t Sleep”
- We Should Make a Documentary About Spades
- For Robert Hayden
- How to Draw a Perfect Circle