Hello Friends,
Today’s poem by Threa Almontaser appears in her 2021 collection The Wild Fox of Yemen. For the purposes of this poem, it may be helpful to know that Almontaser is Yemeni American and wears hijab.
Enjoy.
Ællen
Today’s poem by Threa Almontaser appears in her 2021 collection The Wild Fox of Yemen. For the purposes of this poem, it may be helpful to know that Almontaser is Yemeni American and wears hijab.
Enjoy.
Ællen
When White Boys Ask to See My Hair
My hair is not taking any visitors right now.
My hair was used as a banner on the moon.
My hair is belly dancing on an auntie’s tabletop.
My hair fell off the long line at Mt. Everest trying to take a selfie.
My hair is flipping off an ICE raider after he barges into her favorite deli, arresting her neighbors.
My hair is Medusa’s second cousin, the strands slithering along your throat. Avert your gaze for your own good.
My hair was captured from the exotic Manu wilderness and caged for a popular circus show.
My hair is ducking beneath a desk, trying to recall the drills, math sheets falling in a white rain.
My hair escaped an arranged marriage to sail the Red Sea with a crew of burly pirates. She is busy battling maritime brigands and trying not to get lost.
My hair is under siege in Yemen, her home recently bombed, her children buried under the rubble. I am not entirely sure if she will make it out alive.
My hair was abducted by aliens. Rumor has it they spun her into a star. That might be her there, winking down at you.
My hair was mauled on a Tanzanian Safari. I found a few leftover curls flossed between a caracal’s fangs.
My hair joined a deep-rooted Bedouin tribe. She enjoys feeding nomadic camels from her palm, became the shaykh’s third wife, and sings ancient poetry into campfires. She is happy. I don’t think she is coming back.
■
My hair is not taking any visitors right now.
My hair was used as a banner on the moon.
My hair is belly dancing on an auntie’s tabletop.
My hair fell off the long line at Mt. Everest trying to take a selfie.
My hair is flipping off an ICE raider after he barges into her favorite deli, arresting her neighbors.
My hair is Medusa’s second cousin, the strands slithering along your throat. Avert your gaze for your own good.
My hair was captured from the exotic Manu wilderness and caged for a popular circus show.
My hair is ducking beneath a desk, trying to recall the drills, math sheets falling in a white rain.
My hair escaped an arranged marriage to sail the Red Sea with a crew of burly pirates. She is busy battling maritime brigands and trying not to get lost.
My hair is under siege in Yemen, her home recently bombed, her children buried under the rubble. I am not entirely sure if she will make it out alive.
My hair was abducted by aliens. Rumor has it they spun her into a star. That might be her there, winking down at you.
My hair was mauled on a Tanzanian Safari. I found a few leftover curls flossed between a caracal’s fangs.
My hair joined a deep-rooted Bedouin tribe. She enjoys feeding nomadic camels from her palm, became the shaykh’s third wife, and sings ancient poetry into campfires. She is happy. I don’t think she is coming back.
■