Wild Women Sunni Patterson
They wanted her piecemealed,
papier-mâchéd,
practically broken,
limp-like and loveless,
a litany of exaggeration.
They wanted her low.
And high.
Flat and wide.
Filled with all of their empty.
They wanted her to be more like them.
Not knowing her conception was immaculate.
That she was birthed
in sandalwood-scented river water,
sweet sapphire honey-touched tongue,
she was too much
of a mouthful for the greedy.
Just a small amount of her
was more than they could stand.
Oh, they wanted her bland.
And barren.
Unspirited, un-African, uncultured,
under siege in the streets.
They wanted her face down, ass up,
hands cuffed and ankles strapped.
They wanted her knowing
she could never want them back.
Oh, they wanted her holy,
baptized in her divine,
they wanted her secrets,
pearls to swine.
They wanted to unravel
the mystery of her design.
Fascinated by glory,
hypnotized by her kind.
Oh, they wanted her complete.
They wanted her whole,
though they came fractioned,
half-hearted, half-soul,
with no regards and no knowledge
as to who she really was.
Oh, but if they knew.
If they knew her,
praise songs would rain
from the clouds of their eyes,
clearing the vision, bathing the heart.
They would bow every time they saw her.
Be their best selves when she was around.
If they knew her,
knew she was the glue to their revolution,
the life flow of blood
through their veins.
If they knew her,
she would know,
she would feel
that her body is more than battlefield.
More than bone break and bleeding bigotry.
More than bridge
over your troubled conscience.
More than used up, walked on,
driven through, shot up.
More than your “Selma, Lord, Selma”
Edmund Pettus.
More than your killer Katrina Danziger.
More than your bust them out of Baltimore
“Highway to Nowhere.”
If they knew her,
she would know.
(Singing)
Wild women,
wild women, they walk with buffalo.
Have lightning on their tongues,
fly whisks as weapons.
Wild women, they walk with machetes.
With wisdom, with grace, with ease.
Wild women have hurricanes
in their bellies,
releasing a flood of a lesson.
Oh, wild women, they fly free.
Just watch their ways,
how they rip and shred.
Oh, who can understand her,
this winding Niger river of a woman
one who is unafraid to tear away
only to roam and then become the wind.
She who speaks in gusts and cyclones
blasting us back to high ground,
high consciousness,
she turns and so does the world.
Feel her spinning,
spanning several lifetimes.
Hear her speaking, sparking alarm.
See her dancing, summoning the dead,
resurrecting new life.
Heaven hears her knocking on the door,
safely transporting the ones
who call for her assistance.
Wild women, they open
portals to new worlds,
new speech, new dreams.
Oh, dearly beloveds,
so dearly departed
from the ways of the guardian,
beware.
For wild women are not to be tamed.
Only admired.
Just let her in and witness her
set your days ablaze.
(Cheers) (Applause)
Thank you.
(Applause)