Weaver Woman

August 24, 2012

I weave words
like a west african market woman
selling you my vision,
my mangoes, my papayas, even
my coconuts.
My finished product
can be held up to the sun,
illuminated, made to shine.

The skins of my poems
have been submerged in mud
then laid at the bottom
of the baobab tree
to dry
like mudcloth.

The blood of my poems
can be as dry as the sahara
as wet as monsoons
as cutting as a machete
in the hands of the mau mau.

I weave blood into my words:
red blood, dried blood, youngblood.
An over-saturation of blood decorates my words,
makes them pulse red.

My words hang from trees
like the bitterest kind
of strange fruit.
My words find the peruvian revolutionaries
murdered while hogtied
and then buried in criminal secrecy.
My words were inspired
by rigoberta menchu.

I roots rock reggae with my words
have them jamming
to the heartbeat rhythm
of the warmest music.
The fabric of my words is at its lightest
when it’s in the dancehall
or the yard.

My words sweep over people
like the softest caribbean breezes.
My words will have you
dreaming of blue skies,
white sands and coral reefs

and while you’re dreaming
I weave black people
into my words and I am done.
My finished product
can be held up to the sun
illuminated, made to shine.

Excerpted from In the Whirlwind

©2004 Tichaona Chinyelu

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