Crown Intact

Sometimes racism doesn’t look like violence in the streets or politics in the headlines—it looks like a hand reaching for my crown in a space that was supposed to be sacred. It’s the quiet reminder that even when I walk into a studio seeking peace, my body is still treated like an exhibit. This poem is about that moment, about how even the smallest violation mirrors the larger problems we face as a people.

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 I just walked into the yoga studio—

this white bitch done touched my fro.

I don’t know her from a can of paint,

don’t know who she is, don’t know who she ain’t.

Why are you touching me

like an animal on display?

This ain’t no petting zoo,

I ain’t here to make your day.

I’m trying to find my flow,

I’m trying to let go…

But then this white bitch

done touched my fro.

This was yoga—my Saturday.

My one day carved out to stretch, to breathe, to be.

Led by a Black woman with locs.

I thought I was safe.

I thought I was free.

But America follows me everywhere.

Even here, on the mat, in the quiet,

when I only came to release,

to find peace.

Crown intact.

I had to go.