Patricia Smith

52

Baffled by stark ache and symptom, I get in my bed
beside the bearded charmer who is yet in my bed.

As graying denies and dims me, I vaguely recall
the line of whimpering whiners I’ve let in my bed—

every one of them goofy with love, dazzled by curve
and color, until I screeched, “Oh, just get in my bed!”

The could-be queens, pimpled wordsmiths, thugs and mama’s boys,
porcine professors, all casting their nets in my bed.

Valiantly, they strained to woo with verse, acrobatics.
One fool dared a pirouette, on a bet, in my bed!

(We dated for months.) But like the rest, he finally
did things I would much rather forget. In my bed!

So, all that leads to this. Me, a slow, half-century
woman, turning toward he who conjures sweat in my bed.

“Patricia,” he whispers, stroking me young, unnaming
the men. Then my husband turns the world wet in my bed.

–from Rattle #31, Summer 2009
Tribute to African American Poets

§ One Response to “52″ by Patricia Smith

• Mary Bast says:

  February 21, 2010 at 7:05 am

  Thank you for a well-wrought parallel to my own life. Now, would you please clone this husband?

  Reply