Read the Analysis Here
What they really want
at times
is a specimen
whose heart is in the dust
A mother-of-sufferer
trampled, oppressed
they want a little black blood
undressed
and validation
for the abused stereotype
already in their heads
Or else they want
a perfect song
I can say I can write
no poem big enough
to hold the essence
of a black woman
or a white woman
or a green woman
And there are black women
and black women
like a contrasting sky
of rainbow spectrum
Touch a black woman
you mistake for a rock
and feel her melting
down to fudge
Cradle a soft black woman
and burn fingers as you trace
revolution
And yes we cut bush
to clear paths
for our children
and yes,
we throw sprat
to catch whale
and yes,
if need be we'll trade
a piece-a-pussy
than see the pickney dem
in de grip-a-hungry-belly
Still, there ain't no
easy-belly category
of a black woman
or a white woman
or a green woman
And there are black women
strong and eloquent
and focused
And there are black women
who somehow always manage to end up
frail victim
And there are black women
considered so dangerous
in South Africa
they prison them away
Maybe this poem is to say,
that I like to see
we black women
full-of-we-selves walking
Cruching out
with each dancing step
the twisted self-negating
history
we've inherited
Crushing out
with each dancing step
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