The Habitual Wordsmith Waxes Poetic On the Beauty of Black Women With "Pas De Noire"


Beautiful onyx goddess

Who convinced you that your
Bronzed lips weren't hypnotic?
Intoxicating sun-kissed skin
Wasn't melodic?
In its infinite composition
Magnum opus

Hair like magic
No hocus-pocus
Just a crown that most peasants say won't fit

But you are a descendant of
Every ebony thing that comprises
The skies and the sun that rises

You are the embodiment of
A mother's cries through
Labor pains
As she presses out another diamond
To be mined by undeserving eyes
They'll try and tell you that you are wholesale
No real value
Costume jewelry
When truthfully
You are crystallization of civilization
No appraisal can ever convey your true value

Thick thighs and hips incapable of lies
Your shape they emulate
Through engineered attempts
But can never multiply
So they try to euthanize you
With European myths of beauty
When you transcend standards

You ARE the standard

The flag bearer
The mast on the ship
That they need to sink for their own validation
But goddess

Those jeans you can't quite pull up easily
That blouse you pour out of
Every broken bra strap
Every shown curve
Dips in hips
Are overtures
The religion of your thickness
Dipped in holy words
Embrace every nap and snag
That your coarse hair brings
Because they are parables
Fables for the gilded throne
From which your blackness swings

I loved you without knowing you
I bow in your invisible presence
I exalt you
I speak your name in hushed tones
So as not to besmirch it

But none of that matters
If the reflection in the mirror doesn't
Remind you that "she's worth it"
She deserves this pedestal
The gates of heaven all envy you
No mere mortal title
Can espouse how immortal your body is

My chocolate goddess is
As much god as God is
Because He made you in His likeness
So how can you NOT win?