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Shafro


Now that my afro's as big as Shaft's
I feel a little better about myself.
How it warms my bullet-head in Winter,


black halo, frizzy hat of hair.
Shaft knew what a crown his was,
an orb compared to the bush


on the woman sleeping next to him.
(There was always a woman
sleeping next to him. I keep thinking,


If I'd only talk to strangers. . .
grow a more perfect head of hair.)
His afro was a crown.


Bullet after barreling bullet,
fist-fights & car chases,
three movies & a brief TV series,


never one muffled strand,
never dampened by sweat--
I sweat in even the least heroic of situations.


I'm sure you won't believe this,
but if a policeman walks behind me, I tremble:
What would Shaft do? What would Shaft do?


Bits of my courage flake away like dandruff.
I'm sweating even as I tell you this,
I'm not cool,


I keep the real me tucked beneath a wig,
I'm a small American frog.
I grow beautiful as the theatre dims.

Written by Terrance Hayes

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