When she moved, she went to her looms
Making cloth, being a woman & longin
To be of di earth
A rooted blues
Some ripe berries
Walking in a dirt road
Toes dusted & free
Faces movin windy
Gingham windows &
Reelin to days
With a throat deep
Shout & slow
Like a river
I yam sassafrass/a weaver’s daughta/from Charleston/i’m a woman makin cloth like all good women do/ di moon’s daughta made cloth/di gold array of di sun/di moon’s daughta sat all nite/spinnin…..
i’m a weaver with my sistas from any earth & fields/we always make cloth/love our children/honour our men/who protect us from our enemies/we prepare altars & anoint candles to offer our devotion to our guardians/we proffer hope/& food to eat/clothes to wear/wombs to fill…
Sassafrass had neva wanted to weave, she just couldn’t help it. there was something about di feel of raw fleece and finished threads en dainty patterned pieces that was as essential to her as dancing is to Carmen DeLavallade, or singing to Aretha Franklin….Sassafrass was certain of di necessity of her skill for di wellbeing of women everywhere, as well as for her own…..
Sassafrass wished on flowers/di flight patterns of birds/di angle of leaves fallin/….she wrote songs of love & vindication for all di afrikan & indian deities disgraced by di comin of di white man/& loss of land/& cities reflectin’ respect for livin’ things.
“i yam sassafrass/ my fingers behold you i call upon you with my song you teach me in my sleep/i yam not a besieger of yr fortress/ i yam a crusader/for you are all my past/ i offer you my body to make manifest your will in dis dungeon of machines & Carolina blues/i wanna sing yr joy/& make present your beauty/spirits/black & brown/find yr way thru my tainted blood/make me one of yr own/i yam your child in di new world/i am yr fruit/yet to be chosen for a single battle on yr behalf/come to & thru me/i yam dazzled by yr beneficence i shall create new altars/new praises & be ancient among you/”