I ain’t no wig. I am a high jeweled crown
heliotrope to the spotlight.
I may not have roots but anyone can see
we–all of us–are inseparable.
The first compassionate partner she ever got to choose.
She sat me on her knee–not like a doll,
but a sister–and chanted herself empty.
The care she needed,
she massaged into each lock.
She said: You better be good to me,
said her real name was Anna Mae,
then told every pebble of her story
between Nutbush to Buckingham Palace.
She explained I was her new legacy–shiny and divine
handcrafted
purified in ceremony, then left to dry natural.
I was sewed and ruffled,
back-combed and teased
until I could defy gravity.
And how high I could rise for her.
It’s because of me fans recognize her
before she ever opens her mouth.
Everyone goes on about her insured legs,
the girls, she calls them.
I’ve heard of them.
But I am her marquee.
I shine like the rainbow of light
god sent before swearing off more rain.
Oh my lady,
how long I’d been meaning to tell you:
Every strand, every fiber,
every thing depends on love.
Oakland born poet James Cagney is the award winning author of three books of poetry. His latest, Ghetto Koans: A Personal Archive was published by Black Lawrence Press. Please visit JamesCagneyPoet.comfor more information.
Artwork, “Color of Our Times,” by Alexis Jacobson