Photo by Biel Morro on Unsplash
I’m here for wild-rumpus women who refuse to leave things the way they found them, who make mountains out of molehills. Summon earth that way, make dirt groove that way. Come night, they hold sway over tides, hot stars in their own right, remote-control all streams of light, Hulu Apollo when they crave him, and they always crave him.
I love women who make the best of things, conjure Shakira strings to strum, Sheila E. on the drums, Alicia’s keys for every door. They vibe more with Badu when they’re soulful, belt Aretha when they're glad. And even when they’re not, they dwell in possibility like Emily who told me, “Hope is the Thing with Feathers” and whether or not she knew at the time, she was rainbow peacock goth-girl sublime.
Women multiply miracles, raise dough for loaves, reel in sleek fishes, French-manicure-cling to beloveds’ wishes. Nevermind they’re too broke, too busy, too blue cuz compassionate women put others first and I love that too. They crack codes to make lonely children feel seen, scared men feel courageous, lovers move like gods, friends feel like sisters, families stay connected, gray days glow gold, icy rains feel like waterfalls till no one minds them at all.
Don’t you love creative women who make art from scraps, weave them like Athena at the loom, Judy Blume them into banned books, Keisha-Finnie them into henna looks, sculpt a chiseled torso from wet clay, write a Shonda screenplay, Frida-Kahlo a mural of azure skies with proud eyes of ancestors glowing from the windows of castles women have built. From nothing. But ironclad will and soft curvy bodies. Castles of stone, castles of flesh, castles of knowledge. Fact check: before 1974, women were not allowed to apply for credit. Let’s confetti credit where it’s due. Empires were built on stilettos too. Cookie Lyon knew. Taraji struck back when she wasn’t paid. But that’s a triumph for some other day.
Let’s talk about women steam-rolling on rivers, Tina Turner-esque, muscular legs running in place and places we were once forbidden to go. Fact check: before 1972, women weren’t allowed to run the Boston Marathon. Guess they assumed we wouldn't endure, but I surely see some Wonder Woman belts in here. Did I mention a woman won that year? Nina Kuscsik. I’ll toss her name in the air there where she belongs.
See, we can’t go wrong when women crown each other’s goodness? My goodness, there’s roses enough for a garden, but we gotta pluck those wicked thorns. Jealous notions, unfounded emotions, misplaced devotions, petty commotions. These poisonous potions chemically peel our petals. A plush rose climbing any kinda trellis is still “molto bello.” We all come for the same sun. There’s no need to compete, deplete our beauty, unleash our beast. No, my splendiferous queens, we need to bouquet long stems in cut crystal for divas who make do. No, not just make do, make peace, with who we see in the mirror, talking back.
Dana Kinsey is a spoken word artist, actor, and teacher published in Fledgling Rag, SWWIM, SoFloPoJo, The Champagne Room, Drunk Monkeys, West Trestle Review, Wild Roof Journal, and more. Dana's play, WaterRise, was produced at the Gene Frankel Theatre. Her book, Mixtape Venus, is published by I. Giraffe Press and was selected as a “Best Dressed” feature for The Wardrobe at Sundress Publications. Visit wordsbyDK.com. Visit artist Keisha Finnie at https://keishafinnie.com/.