- Olivia Brooks
- Oct 29
- 1 min read
Updated: Oct 30
Pineapple
When I can pull my hair into an Afro puff
Black women call a pineapple, I’ve never been
more ready for a protest. Now I am afraid
to say the word protest. Afraid of streets in street
clothes, listening, scared of humidity behind
me, dragging its feet. Mom says we’ve been here before.
By here she means a time pre-dating her, even
her mother and her mother’s mother. She means when
women braided their hair into escape routes, maps
in flat twists and cornrows. When I put my hair up
it rarely clears the saucer magnolias and pink
cup-shaped flowers nestle in it, a souvenir
I keep on an altar next to crystals and worry
stones. I’m praying to historicity these days.
The authenticity of a people that will
not falter. I ask it to bless me with a nerve.
I ask it come to me like Jacob’s dream. It does.
Millions of hands straightening my posture where my hair
hangs loose as I stand down in towering shadows.
ERICA DAWSON is a Black neurodivergent poet living in the Baltimore-DC area. She's the author of three books of poetry, most recently When Rap Spoke Straight to God (Tin House, 2018). Her poems have appeared in Best American Poetry, Orion, Revel, The Believer, Virginia Quarterly Review, and other journals and anthologies. You can find her at www.ericadawsonpoet.net and on Instagram and Bluesky at @ericadawsonpoet.