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

Grace Nichols

This poem was found at www.englishresources.co.uk