by Patricia Smith

Grace me with all 60 seconds of this moment,
this cluttered syrup, this orb of gold, this
neon matchhead, this exhalation of tongues.
Brace me against the bedpost, slanted mahogany
brand searing my backskin and the tiny circle
that is the world nestled like the last puzzle piece
in my open mouth, interrupting the O you incite.
To say I love you is just one staggered breath,
just one step up the side of the mountain, to say
I love you is merely syllable pause syllable pause
syllable, but you, sleek-haired purveyor of magic,
hum stardust into the folds of me. Beneath you
I am fatback moan, I am that warped blue note
that pops sweetness and the sour smell of
afterburn. Has anyone ever described your kiss?
Has anyone survived that plunge into God's
brown and nurturing hands, that sparkling
slow dance that is crystal to be lost in?
Grace me all the moment of this, bend my back
into cracking arch, ass clenched, frozen flower.
It is said that in the moment we come, we will
say anything and only the thought of it is truth.
After you, it is what I don't say. Lost in tremors
beneath your huge hands, I realize the useless
clink of language, the pitfalls of logic, sound.
I celebrate this rare silence and move my cupped hand
to the you, the you that has spoken to me.