WOMEN ARE TAUGHT from teahouse of the almighty
I’m convinced it’s a man’s smell that pulls us in–
faux leather and spiced soap, splashes of lemon
and Old Spice, the odd oil tinging his sweat.
As women, we were designed to wither beneath
the mingled stench of them. As a women, I was
—
yo, yo, baby work that big ass, you must want
Designed
what I got
to whither
c’mon honey just let daddy stick it in a little bit
Beneath
bitch of course i love you i give you money don’t i
—
Why else would i cage myself in glorious raiment
of spandex and lace, paint my panting the hues
of burn, twist my voice from madam to smoke?
Why else, once he has left me, do i bury my face
in the place his sex has pressed, inhale
what he has left, and pray to die there?
—
On the day I married, I was such porcelain
delicate and poised to shatter. I was unflinching,
sure of my practiced vows,
already addicted to sanctity of bondage.
I was an unfurled ballad in a scoop-necked
sheath carved of sugar. And him on my arm,
grinning like a bear, all sinew and swagger
Bibles were everywhere. Dizzied by rote,
I stared at the gold rope around my finger.
He owned me.
And that felt nice.
That felt right.
—
the first time i hit her
I thought the loose tooth a temporary nightmare
the second time i hit her
He cried himself to sleep, and that was nice,
that was right
the third time i hit her
He counted scars and whispered never again
baby never again
—
When I’d die without you
turned to i’ll kill you if you ever leave me
I bristled like a hound in heat, I didn’t
understand that not being aroused, when
let’s get away
turned to
you’ll never get away
such heat rippled my
belly such crave in me screeching walk run run run
—
run
i etched a thin line into the throat of her running
run
i stalked the street just a breath behind her
i shattered our son’s skull with a shotgun
run
i wanted her dead
—
My first thought as he jammed the
still smoking barrel into my breastbone
her first thought
as the blade mapped my chest, the
hammer sliced the air toward my hair
the bullet pushed me though a plate glass window
my last thought you won’t believe this
my last thought
you really wont believe this
my last thought
was
he must really
—
love me
—
—
—
*more about Patricia
Partricia Smith is author of three previous collections of poetry, the children’s book janna and the kings, and co-author of Africans in America: Americans Journey through Slavery. A record setting four-time national poetry slam champion, the most successful slammer in the competition’s history—and arguably the world’s best spoken word performer,smith has been featured in the film Slamnation and on the HBO series Def Poetry Jam. She lives in New York.
also check out her video’s —>> (Skinhead) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LswzRttYVw
(Medusa)http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sf-UCBxZlFs
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