Free Teahouse of the Almighty by Patricia Smith

COPYRIGHT © 2006 Patricia Smith
    COVER & BOOK DESIGN Linda S. Koutsky
    COVER ARTWORK © Maurice Evans ( mauriceevansart.com )
    AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH © Peter Dressel ( peterdressel.com )
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    LIBRARY OF CONGRESS
    CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
    Smith, Patricia
    Teahouse of the almighty : poems / by Patricia Smith.
    p. cm.
    ISBN : 978-1-56689-366-4
    1. African Americans—Poetry.    1. Title.
    PS 3569. M 537839 T 43 2006
    378. 1'06— DC 22
    2006011899
    FIRST EDITION | FIRST PRINTING
    1    3    5    7    9    8    6    4    2
    Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editors of the following publications where these poems first appeared: Spirit and Flame: An Anthology of Contemporary African-American Poetry: “Building Nicole’s Mama,” Asheville Poetry Review: “Map Rappin’,” Underwood Review: “Forgotten in All This,” Willow Review: “Teahouse of the Almighty,” Callaloo: “Her Other Name.”
    Special thanks to Edward Sanders, and to the benefactors and supporters of the National Poetry Series; to Luis Rodriguez, Michael Warr, and Marc Smith for an invaluable birth; to Stephen Dobyns and Tom Lux for the friendship, support, and unflinching guidance; to the national poetry slam community and the staff and students of Cave Canem, and to Kwame Dawes, the perfect “go-to guy.”

For Mikaila, The Face, who lights every corner of my world and work.
    For Bruce, my doting husband and partner, the consummate editor.
    For Damon, my son, who will prevail.
    And for Boof! Fwa!

             If thou be more than hate or atmosphere
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Step forth in splendor, mortify our wolves.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Or we assume a sovereignty ourselves.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  —GWENDOLYN BROOKS

BUILDING NICOLE’S MAMA
    for the 6th grade class of Lillie C. Evans School, Liberty City, Miami
    I am astonished at their mouthful names—
    Lakinishia, Fumilayo, Chevellanie, Delayo—
    their ragged rebellions and lip-glossed pouts,
    and all those pants drooped as drapery.
    I rejoice when they kiss my face, whisper wet
    and urgent in my ear, make me their obsession
    because I have brought them poetry.
    They shout me raw, bruise my wrists with pulling,
    and brashly claim me as mama as they
    cradle my head in their little laps,
    waiting for new words to grow in my mouth.
    You.
    You.
    You.
    Angry, jubilant, weeping poets—we are all
    saviors, reluctant hosannas in the limelight,
    but you knew that, didn’t you? Then let us
    bless this sixth grade class—40 nappy heads,
    40 cracking voices, and all of them
    raise their hands when I ask. They have all seen
    the Reaper, grim in his heavy robe,
    pushing the button for the dead project elevator,
    begging for a break at the corner pawn shop,
    cackling wildly in the back pew of the Baptist church.
    I ask the death question and forty fists
    punch the air, me!, me! And O’Neal,
    matchstick crack child, watched his mother’s
    body become a claw, and 9-year-old Tiko Jefferson,
    barely big enough to lift the gun, fired a bullet
    into his own throat after Mama bended his back
    with a lead pipe. Tamika cried