Poetica Magazine

I am still

as a statue as security

personnel tells me to take off

my hat and uncover my hair,

and I want so badly

to make them understand,

to explain what this beanie means

to me—how a head covering connects

me to every Ruth and Rachel and

David and every other unnamed

person who has risked their life

just by living—but the holstered guns

remind me of where I am

and how I am seen,

so instead I apologize for the hold up,

for slowing down the line, for

the inconvenience of this

religious tradition that has kept

my people warm since the beginning

of time.