Meet the Future of Chicago’s Poetry Scene | Black Girl Magic w/ Jamila Woods

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Your hands are no more useful
than tree stumps at harvest Do not sit on my porch
while I make myself useful Braid secrets into a scalps
for summer days for my sisters Secure every strand of gossip tight
with rubber band value How could you ever grow your nails so long? How can you have history without braids? What do I tell the White boy
who asks me of my heritage? What do I tell his mother and father in their
silver frames atop the baby grand inside? What do I tell the tooth bleach on his sister’s sink? What do I tell his New England nose? I got two moons divided by a rat tail
comb, my afro puffs hot to the touch, always sweating
oil from some fruit or nut conducting electricity clockwise 3d printing my signature over and over again in new cursive


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