with all 60 seconds of this moment,
this orb of gold, neon matchhead.

Brace me

against the bedpost, slanted mahogany brand
searing my backskin and the tiny circle of world

nestled like the last puzzle piece in my mouth,
interrupting the O you incite. To verb I love you

is just one staggered breath, one step up the side
of the mountain, to noun I love you is merely

syllable pause syllable pause syllable, but you,
pout-bellied purveyor of voodoo, hum your crave

into the folds of me. Has anyone ever described
your kiss? Has anyone survived that plunge

into dim religion, been smashed body to body
in that sparkling slow dance that is crystal

to be lost in? Grace me all the time I'm begging,
bend my back into cracking arch, clenched ass,

frozen flower. They say that when we come,
we will say anything, but only the saying of it is truth.

Lost in tremors beneath your hands, I'm stunned
by poetry's useless clink, its quite obvious pitfalls.

Help me teach silence its first word.

Patricia Smith's four books of poetry include Teahouse of the Almighty, a National Poetry Series selection and winner of the Hurston-Wright Legacy Award in Poetry; Blood Dazzler, a book of poems chronicling the tragedy of Hurricane Katrina, which will be published in 2008. Her work has appeared in Poetry, The Paris Review and many other journals--in addition, she is a Pushcart Prize winner, a Cave Canem faculty member and a four-time individual champion of the National Poetry Slam.  NYC reminds her what her hometown of Chicago would be if it were doused briefly in an exciting vat of acid.

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