Siaara Freeman

Someone Asked Me If My Hair Was Mine Today

It’s not. My hair is clumps of dirt
from sacred ground,  a thousand arms
reaching for God. My hair is my nanas
cough.  My hair belongs to Lupus,
it wilts like childhood. My hair stings
at the root like rotten teeth. When they fall
out, I look under my pillow and a small treasure
of weed awaits me. I’m so fucking high, my hair is
clouds, so I guess it’s the skies. Was my fathers
so I guess it’s dead. It used to be a thick anchor, I imagine
the flood was too much. It belongs to the war. A mermaid
let her lover scalp her so she could live. A sphinx sacrificed
her coils to recite the riddle in its entirety. My hair is dust,
so I suppose it’s Gods.


Siaara Freeman is 27 years of dramatic entrances and exits & from Cleveland Ohio. She is a 2016 pushcart prize nominee, 2016 best new poet nominee, 2017 bettering american poetry nominee & a 2017 button chapbook contest finalist. She is the founder of online magazine and an editor for Tinderbox Literary Journal. She is the current coach for the Detroit Brave New Voices team. In her spare time she is growing her afro so tall, God mistakes it for a microphone & speaks into her. You can find some of her work in Crab Fat Magazine, Rat's Ass Review, Black Napkin Press, and more.