Please Don't Touch My Sonnet
by Shamon Williams
I don鈥檛 always come into work or class with a new 鈥榙o,
but when I do, I always feel like some exotic pet.
Co-workers, classmates and company flock
to me like starved seagulls to soggy, salty fries, hands
itchin鈥, fingers twitchin鈥, questions pitchin鈥 at me鈥
鈥淐an I touch your hair?鈥 鈥淚s that a weaves?鈥 鈥淒o you wash it?鈥
When locs tumble from my scalp like weeping willow branches,
when a puff ball rests atop, a black hole absorbing sunlight, shea butter and bullshit,
when my 鈥榝ro rises like hands stretched in praise,
笔濒别补蝉别&苍产蝉辫;顿辞苍鈥檛&苍产蝉辫;罢辞耻肠丑.&苍产蝉辫;
My braids are bands of sacred rivers woven together. My tresses are film strips,
holding stories of our past lives like urns holding ashes,
of our ancestors, of our spirit鈥檚 songs and all that jazz. If you still want to touch,
think Medusa.
Why鈥檚 it always about color with you?
The closer the hand to the glowing lightbulb,
fatter the shadow puppet pressing the walls.
Where the sun hums, the eclipse follows faithfully.
Stars can鈥檛 shine without darkness caressing their edges.
What becomes of white light pumped
through a prism? Can I take my blackness and do the reverse?
You should be asking
鈥淗ow has your color affected you?鈥
Ask the strange fruit for their stories.
Ask the North Star if tolerance tastes like pennies.
Ask the boy who 鈥渨histled鈥 at a white woman.
Ask the grey, bullet-holed hoodie holding skittles and AriZona.
Check America鈥檚 pockets, pat her down and shake free her secrets
like a bully wanting a nerd鈥檚 lunch money and shoot her still.
Shamon Williams
Shamon Williams is an African American student at the University of Central Florida pursuing bachelor鈥檚 degrees in psychology and English. When she isn鈥檛 working, writing or napping, she partakes in acting, research, aerial dance or plays video games. She is currently working on a fiction novel and a children鈥檚 book.