Sunday Night in Strands of 4C

j.c. otiono

Two fingers latch on
a proud pebble.
How far can I stretch it
before my fingers stiffen?
How long until it curls into itself?
digging at its core,
hardening the longer I leave it out exposed

Flush tight to nape of neck
you barely work to swallow
the slick of fingers
Pressing into old aches
Urging blood to the surface

Let tongue steamroll knots
To the cracked exhale
of strand breaking
As I cradle neglected parts
that make letting go so painful,
You remind me to invite only
the gentlest close to us:
for we grew into our sprawl
from care, not brawn
this hairitage unravels
strands of 4C

Your magic is terrible:
trailing kisses down my back,
and soon falling to my feet,
you too weather me undone
cast adrift amongst the shea
To have me at your beck and nape
Such tenderness you demand

_____
[to myself: a poem about the eroticism of 4c hair. Raw 4c hair has been characterized as hard, disrespectful, and unfeminine. I fully believe this is due to racism. In this poem I wanted to depict 4c hair as something else - the most sensitive, the most sensual, and the most needing of gentleness...]