Who are the Women of Xolobeni? Who was Dulcie September? What are dirty/pretty things? Or vulva volcanoes?

Whatever its theme, each poem in this collection featuring the work of 40 black women poets from Africa and its diaspora reflects the lives of most, if not all women, womyn and womxn – particularly those born Black and poor by design in a post-slavery, post-colonial world.

Wild Imperfections opens with poems honouring different generations of ancestor women, like Sarah Baartman and Rosa Parks – born at different times yet all of them cultural and political mirrors to Black girls and women.

Questioning and disrupting patriarchy, these poems speak about birth and death, fertility and infertility, rape and genital mutilation, war, exile and forced migration, but also revel in joy, desire, and the expression of sexuality and the erotic.

But what is a wild imperfection? And can the language of these poets recreate a space for the ‘wild’ and ‘unruly’, the ‘loose’ and ‘dirty’, the ‘witches’ and ‘bitches’ who are perfect in their brokenness and who are no longer seeking permission for their rage, their joy and their healing?

Featuring the work of Black women poets from Botswana to Brazil, in this collection, we encounter ancestors who made love, just for the sake of love, and women who die with each orgasm while attempting to mark the extent of their own humanities. This is for the nuns, the singers, the clowns, the diviners and the conjurers who reject the constant attempt to clean up history. The wildly imperfect women of slick braids, shiny skin and succulent lips, building new homes from clouds for future legions. Here congregate the women, womxn and womyn who do not believe in tough love that disguises hurt just to prove a point. They dance with the dead with exquisite feet, cheekbones high, reflecting their mothers' smiles. Because no one claps for martyrs, these dirty/pretty women learn to walk cities like they own them, choosing the battles of their hearts. If this collection teaches anything, it is that love is always messy, that our sacrament requires wet wipes and that we are just flesh and bone honing practice.