LUMIÈRE
LITERARY MAGAZINE
LUMIÈRE
LITERARY MAGAZINE
Textured Affairs
By Lenny Prater
pt. 1
My dreams were packaged in swooped edges, slick-back buns
Like paint on canvas –brushed– into fine lines.
Yet wrapped in frizz, a thick coiled jubilee
To rip, tear and act as naturalistic
Vase for plastic flowers –pretty– lookin’
In twists and swirls. Almost dream-like ain’t it?
Almost like the more you touch, the –softer–
The future looks and the stronger your hands
Get. Ain’t it something you didn’t expect?
To love –texture– and its endlessness. Ain’t
It something to behold in black, grays, and
Purples and blues. A mural attached to
A sensitive scalp, abundant. My dreams
Are no longer packaged. They move freely.
pt. 2
I’ve known the feeling of being bound since
I was young, and learned how to appreciate
A searing pain caused by something that makes
me feel pretty. I knew the unforeseen
Attacks felt familiar. They were just
Usually followed up with “Sorry,
Baby.” The bounding was displayed with pride.
I want nothing more than that comfort back,
of knowing that all of the binding will
Eventually come undone. I want to know
That I’ll be pampered with castor oil
and massages. I want to be held
together by blue magic hair grease
And flower-shaped barrettes. Comfort me.
pt. 3
To loc your hair is to give yourself the
Room to fuse and let loose ends entangle.
It is to bind and fortify. When loc’d,
You commit yourself to security.
To care and to twist. To be locked is to
Come undone. To allow yourself to trust
The process and embrace the many
Phases it may come with. To find ease in
Permanence because the upkeep will
always be worth it. A sustained romance
Coddled by coils and moisturized ends,
Bundled by large silk headscarves and leave-in
Conditioner.
pt. 4
It ain’t hard to tell what that is, stinka.
Need to train them eyes for storytellin’
You ain’t learn nuthin’ from the cool touch of
JAM! on a freshly braided scalp or the
Stiffness of carefully curved edges bound
To last you a lifetime? Ain’t nuthin’ like that
Round where all them whites be. You gotta have
Your own stack because Sally don’t cater
To yo black ass. She don’t know how to take
Care of ya fro –can’t even touch a dread
Or two– Now ain’t that some shit? And when it’s
Long like the struggle of our ancestors
She say, “Is that all yours?” and you betta
Just give her them eyes for storytellin’.