WOMAN 1 – AFRICAN AMERICAN WOMAN WEARING A BLACK DRESS
WOMAN 2 – AFRICAN AMERICAN WOMAN WEARING A BLACK DRESS
WOMAN 3 – AFRICAN AMERICAN WOMAN WEARING A BLACK DRESS
The women move together to the
center of the stage and stand in a
semi circle holding hands. They
look up and begin to chant.
We be outcast.
Our skin, always prepared for a funeral.
Cast spells; spells trouble.
We be black girl magic!
Maybe because we know how to disappear.
We be a coven, a circle!
(The women let go of each other’s hands and
speak to the audience)
Maybe that’s why we keep going through the same shit.
WOMAN 1 AND 3
What goes around, comes around.
Maybe it’s in the cards, like potioned tarot roots
(When the women say “altar” their bodies
hunch down and their hands are
outstretched, palms down.)
This is how black women altar
(The women move their hands in a circular
motion as if they are casting a spell;
their voices lower and become ominous.)
Double double, a skin for trouble. No justice, protect and serve
(Women laugh loudly and then “police” is
said sarcastically, drawn out like
pleeeease! The women use their hands to
wave away the absurdity.)
We bind you, cold stare with a badge, misdemeanor at best
We bind you, trainer for track season, florist for the dead
We bind you, power unchecked, personified gun
(Chanting becomes more intense in volume
and in tempo. With each phrase the women
become more rigid, leading up to a
fighting stance with fists clenched.)
We bind you, echoed scream, camera turned off, and report
unwritten; evidence planted, procession of headlights, you
hidden truth; we bind you, we bind you, we bind you
(Women pause with fists clenched. When
they begin the next lines their hands are
held out helplessly.)
You: a reason to write a eulogy, a reason for a new black dress.
You: incantation of loss, ain’t this what the candles are for?
Another dead black body? Let this circle be broken.
(The women pause and then break the semi
circle they stand in and leave the stage
in different directions.)