No Dread Possesses These
People have called them “dreadlocks.”
I love my husband’s hair of locks, a gift of Nubian treasure.
No dread possesses these,
nor smell of sweating- foul
but aging locks like Samson’s strength,
caressing his narrow buttocks
as glorious raiment rests there.
I touch my fingers to his mane,
in essence rare to feel
with spirit of softness, strong.
No hair dress can compare
to his inherited adornment.
Nothing of dread possesses these locks.
Pressing my lips to sweetness as summer raindrops,
curled in natural spectrum delight,
growing, growing, growing grey, graced,
oiled with generational radiance.
How much I love his countenance,
the moor of blackness to see.
A richness of culture,
Favored daily by The Creator.
Peace! Protection! Provision! My Passions.
Resting on each precisely, numbered lock.
No dread possesses these.
Copyright © Sian St. John | Year Posted 2026
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