The wind doesn’t blow through their hair like it does the others.

It meanders through the curls of our melanated mothers.

It carries heavy accents infused with both love and suffering

over badly connected telephone lines

and the language barriers of anglocentric confines.

It navigates their thick 4c forests

as do the rigid combs they brandish to govern expanding crowns

that sit above scalps which resemble

the most polished oak.