The Black Woman


To hell with the white chicks with floral dresses.
She’s the devil in bed, a black woman
On the back seat of a bus
A seat that barely fits her big booty
No wonder the black man walks behind his ‘sister’.
The brother is in dire hoop pains,
In aching need, to molest his palms with
Two basketballs, and do ambidextrous hook shots
From where his eyes are slaves.

And it was Rosa Parker that gave
The black woman the god-given right
To fit her booty as she belongs.
On the flank of a bus or a company director’s chair.
Its all about the black woman, with staunch
Thighs and effortless strength in her shin,
Carrying herself to a colorblind world.

The black woman will always be Sheba’s heir
Beyonce’s wannabe, Lathifa’s presence
And Rosa Parks in legacy. Of how a race
Of women, can rise from slavery,
From the forced prostitution,
To being the custodians of their bodies.
Women who crash through glass ceilings
To become their own kite goddesses.

Little curls, or big ones, fleshed thighs
And a trunk that outgrows all dimensions
Stereotypes her. Still, a black woman is defined
Not by the size of the booty, but only
By the casts that are sculpted, as she perches;
By the seat, the bench or perhaps the throne
Playing a game of musical chairs
Inside her dreamful heart.

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