In this week’s episode, we get a glimpse at the beautiful journey of Patricia Smith. A storyteller at heart, Smith aims to explore every possibility. This episode includes her poem featured in the Get Lit Anthology, “Biting Back.”“Biting Back” by Patricia SmithChildren do not grow upas much as they grow away.My son’s eyes are stones - flat, brown, fireless,with no visible openings in or out.His voice, when he cares to try it on,hovers one-note in that killing placewhere even the blues fidget.Tight syllables, half spoken, half spat,greet me with the warmth,of glint-tipped arrows. The air around himhurts my chest, grows too cold to nourish,and he stares past me to the open door of his room,anxious for my pattent-ed, stumbled retreat. My fingers used to brush bit of the worldFrom his kinked hair,but he moved beyond that mother shineto whispered “fucks” on the telephone,to the sweet mysteries of scalloped buttonsdotting the maps of young girls,to the warped, frustrating truths of algebra,to anything but me. Ancient, annoying apparatus,I have unfortunately retained the ability to warm meat,to open cans, to clean clothingthat has yellowed and stiffened.I spit money when squeezed,don’t try to dance in front of his friends,And know that rap music canNOTT be stopped.For these brief flashes of cool, I am tolerated in spurts. At night I lay in my husband’s armsand he tells me that these are things that happen,that the world will tilt againand our son will return, unannounced, as he was -goofy and clinging, clever with words, stupefied by rockets.And I dream on that.One summer after camp,twelve inches taller than the summer before,my child grinned and said,“Maybe a tree bit me.” We laughed,not knowing that was to be his last uttered innocence.Only months later, eyes would narrow and doors would slam.Now he is scowl, facial hair, knots of muscle. He isPimp, homey, pistol. He is man smell, grimy [grai-mee] fingers,red eyes, rolling dice. He is street, smoke, cocked cannon.And I sit on his bare mattress after he’s left for school,wonder at the simple jumble of this motherless world,look for clues that some gumpopping teenage girlnow wears my face. Full of breastmilk and finger songs,I stumble the street staring at other children,gulping my dose of their giggles,and cursing the trees for their teeth.Support the showSupport the show

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