Deep Dish poem-a-month

Listening at the Door

Beneath the door, I could practically see
the wretched slither of tobacco and English Leather.
Hiding on the other side, I heard Mama giggle
through clenched teeth, which meant potential
husband sitting spitshined on our corduroy couch.
The needle hit that first groove and I wondered
why my mama had chosen the blues,
wrong, Friday-angled, when it was hope
she needed.  I pressed my ear against the door,
heard dual damp panting, the Murphy bed squeal,
the occasional directive,
the sexless clink of jelly jar glasses.

What drove me to listen on those nights
when my mother let that fragrant man in,
banished me to the back of the apartment,
pretended she could shine above hurting?
I'd rest my ear against the cool wood all night
as she flipped through the 45s -
looking for Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder,
somebody blind this time,
somebody crawling on his knees toward love.

Patricia Smith

teahouse of the almighty, copyright 2006 Coffee House Press

What I Would Have Told Oprah, Had She Asked

For Michael Jackson

Strange they would think I'd want to live forever.
I would like to slip these bones from my body,
lock them away in a cool room,
douse them with milk,
fold my soul quietly into one last corner.
No lights on me.

I am the edge of mirrors where no one ever  looks,
the cousin who mumbles,
the first stop of an idiot child.
There are a million of your arms wrapped around me,
crushing,
enclosing,
threatening my stitched road to perfect
and the tenuous braid of my body,
fingers tugging my nipples red
and brushing my startled penis.
You would kill me if I let you.
I may let you.

I sleep flat on my back,
my arms at my sides,
my eyes open,
dreaming
of kinks in my hair.  I dream also of Negro women
smashing my cheek with the heels of their hands,
of scarlet fruits bursting rivers,
of dying here,
flat on my back,
arms at my sides,
my eyes open,
dreaming
of kinks in my hair.

I am just what you imagine,
a bastard zephyr cooling my own brow,
tangling in my own hair.
I am enamored of children
because I can be a toy to them.
I am enamored of Elizabeth Taylor
because she is fat and mortal.
I am afraid of my father
because he is fat and mortal.
I am fat. And mortal.

I wish I could swallow music,
feed myself with drumbeats and rainfall piano.
You would love me then. I could open my door
to all of you and all of your arms.

I know you would wrap me in stubbled linen
the color of milk,
you would batter me with your kisses,
and just before I screamed for mercy
you would scrub my filthy skin
and let me sleep.

Patricia Smith
Close to Death, copyright 1993 Zoland Books, used with permission.