This is another re-post, not because I’m lazy, but because I wanted others who may have missed this to see it and feel it. This is the hardest piece I’ve written to date. It speaks to Black women’s history in this country with white men. It was inspired by a story told to me by a serious Sista.
This may enhance your reading experience:
Our grandmothers screams can still be
heard through trees and swamps and back roads,
screams that signify a fire has started.
I can still feel white hands around Black
throats, still hear white breath in Black ears,
whispering devil thoughts in demonic tongues,
useless crying in half way nights fall on
Barbed wire rapist with razor blade fingers,
leaving genetic scars on Black wombs and Black seed,
stubborn intrusions polluting Black blood with insanity
and double cross, injuring Black minds with delay and self doubt.
Healing still not coming to our grandmothers while,
rancid, pus filled wounds are left to fester and
infect, as you stand tall as if superior to Black
people, on your infertile land, which left
infertile by your dead crops and manipulations.
You felt deviant ecstasy as you entered
Mother’s land, with swollen, pale, hate filled bayonet,
stabbing generation pon generation of Black genius and
resource, with exact precision and intent, you wanted
nothing but to inflect devastation that carry the balance forward.
Barbed wire rapist shooed husband and father
from uneasy comfort, so bringer of bondage could
continue to defile and lay waste to Black
pearls and little girls.
Full of shame and self detached, her eyes
would never meet her man’s eyes again,
while Barbed wire rapist grinned and wait for
half way night, as doors can’t lock and cowardice hates light.