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In this week\\u2019s 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, \\u201cBiting Back.\\u201d

\\u201cBiting Back\\u201d by Patricia Smith

Children do not grow up

as much as they grow away.

My son\\u2019s 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 place

where even the blues fidget.

Tight syllables, half spoken, half spat,

greet me with the warmth,

of glint-tipped arrows. The air around him

hurts 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.

\\xa0

My fingers used to brush bit of the world

From his kinked hair,

but he moved beyond that mother shine

to whispered \\u201cfucks\\u201d on the telephone,

to the sweet mysteries of scalloped buttons

dotting 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 clothing

that has yellowed and stiffened.

I spit money when squeezed,

don\\u2019t 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.

\\xa0

At night I lay in my husband\\u2019s arms

and he tells me that these are things that happen,

that the world will tilt again

and 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,

\\u201cMaybe a tree bit me.\\u201d

\\xa0

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 is

Pimp, 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\\u2019s left for school,

wonder at the simple jumble of this motherless world,

look for clues that some gumpopping teenage girl

now 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.

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