[2 of 5] The Poet X: A Novel by Elizabeth Acevedo (2018)

Author: Elizabeth Acevedo

Acevedo, Elizabeth. The Poet X, part 2 of 5. [S.l.]: HarperCollins, 2018.

Contents

Aman
Whispering with Caridad Later That Day
What Twin Be Knowing
Sharing
Questions for Ms. Galiano
Spoken Word
Wait—
Holding a Poem in the Body
J. Cole vs. Kendrick Lamar
Asylum
What I Tell Aman:
Dreaming of Him Tonight
The Thing about Dreams
Date
Mami’s Dating Rules
Clarification on Dating Rules
Feeling Myself
Part II: And the Word Was Made Flesh
Smoke Parks
I Decided a Long Time Ago
Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin
Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin, for Real
Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin (Last and Most Important Reason)
But Why Twin Is Still the Only Boy I’ll Ever Love
Communication
About A
Catching Feelings
Notes with Aman
What I Didn’t Say to Caridad in Confirmation Class
Lectures
Ms. Galiano’s Sticky Note on Top of Assignment 1
Sometimes Someone Says Something
Listening
Mother Business
And Then He Does
Warmth
The Next Couple of Weeks
Eve,
“I Think the Story of Genesis Is Mad Stupid”
As We Are Packing to Leave
Father Sean
Answers
Rough Draft Assignment 2—Last paragraphs of My Biography
Final Draft of Assignment 2 (What I Actually Turn In)
Hands
Fingers
Talking Church
Swoon
Telephone
Over Breakfast
Angry Cat, Happy X
About Being in Like
Music
Ring the Alarm

Tuesday, September 18

Aman

After two weeks of bio review,
safety lessons, and blahzayblahblah—
we’re finally starting real work.
A boy, Aman, is assigned as my lab partner.
I saw him around last year,
but this is our first class together.
He shifts at the two-person desk we share
and his forearm touches mine.
After a moment, I shift on purpose,
liking how my arm brushes against his.
I pull away quickly.
The last thing I need is for someone to see me
trying to holla at a dude in the middle of class.
Then I’ll really be known as fast.
But it’s like his forearm brush changed everything.
Now I notice how I’m taller than him by a couple of inches.
How full his mouth is. How he has a couple of chin hairs.
How quiet he is. How he peeks at me from under his lashes.
Near the end of class, as we both stare at the board
I let my arm rest against his. It seems safe, our silence.

Whispering with Caridad Later That Day

X: There’s this boy at school . . .
C: This is why your mom should have sent you
with me to St. Joan’s.
X: Are you kidding? Half those girls
end up pregnant before graduating.
C: No exageres, Xio.
And we’re going to get in trouble.
We’re supposed to be annotating this verse.
X: You and I could break this verse down in our sleep.
It’s not wrong to think a boy is fine, you know.
C: It’s wrong to lust, Xio. You know it’s a sin.
X: We’re humans, not robots. Even our parents lusted once.
C: That’s different. They were married.
X: You don’t think they lusted before the aisle?
Girl, bye. Anyways, there’s a boy at school.
He’s cute. His arm . . . is warm.
C: I don’t even want to know what you mean by that.
Is that code for something? Stop being fresh.
X: Caridad, you always trying to protect me
from my dirty mind . . . of warm arms.
C: Sometimes I think I’m the only one
trying to protect you from yourself.

What Twin Be Knowing

As I’m getting ready for sleep, I’m surprised
to see the crumpled poetry club flyer
neatly unfolded and on my bed.
It must have fallen out of my bag.
Without looking up from the computer screen,
Twin says in barely a whisper,
“This world’s been waiting
for your genius a long time.”
My brother is no psychic, no prophet,
but it makes me smile,
this secret hope we share,
that we are both good enough
for each other and maybe the world, too.
But when he goes to brush his teeth,
I tear the flyer into pieces before Mami can find it.
Tuesdays, for the foreseeable future,
belong to church. And any genius I might have
belongs only to me.

Sharing

Although Twin and I are super different,
people find it strange how much we share.
We shared the same womb, the same cradle,
and our whole lives the same room.
Mami wanted to find a bigger apartment,
told Papi we should move to Queens,
or somewhere far from Harlem,
where we could each have our own room.
But apparently, although Papi had changed
he still stood unmoved.
Said everything we could want was here.
And sharing a room wouldn’t kill us.
And it hasn’t.
Except. I once heard a rumor
that goldfish have an evolutionary gene
where they’ll only develop as big as the tank they’re put into.
They need space to stretch. And I wonder if
Twin and I are keeping each other small.
Taking up the space that would have let the other grow.

Questions for Ms. Galiano

I’m one of the first students in English class the next day.
And although I promised myself I would keep my lips
stapled together when Ms. Galiano asks me how I’m doing,
the words trip and twist their ankles
trying to rush out my mouth: “Soyourunthepoetryclubright?”
She doesn’t laugh. Cocks her head, and nods.
“Yes, we just started it this year. Spoken Word Poetry Club.”
And my face must have been all kinds of screwed-up confused
because she tries to explain how spoken word is performed poetry,
but it all sounds the same to me . . . except one is memorized.
“It might be easier if I showed you.
I’ll pull a clip up as today’s intro to class.
Are you thinking of joining the club?”
I shake my head no. She gives me that look again,
when someone who doesn’t know you is sizing you up
like you’re a broken clock and they’re trying to translate the ticks.

Spoken Word

When class starts Ms. Galiano projects a video:
a woman onstage, her voice quiet,
then louder and faster like an express train picking up speed.
The poet talks about being black, about being a woman,
about how beauty standards make it seem she isn’t pretty.
I don’t breathe for the entire three minutes
while I watch her hands, and face,
feeling like she’s talking directly to me.
She’s saying the thoughts I didn’t know anyone else had.
We’re different, this poet and I. In looks, in body,
in background. But I don’t feel so different
when I listen to her. I feel heard.
When the video finishes, my classmates,
who are rarely excited by anything, clap softly.
And although the poet isn’t in the room
it feels right to acknowledge her this way,
even if it’s only polite applause;
my own hands move against each other.
Ms. Galiano asks about the themes and presentation style
but instead of raising my hand I press it against my heart
and will the chills on my arms to smooth out.
It was just a poem, Xiomara, I think.
But it felt more like a gift.

Wait—

Is this what Ms. Galiano thinks
I’m going to do in her poetry club?
She mentioned competition,
and I know slam is just that,
but she can’t think that I,
who sits silently in her classroom,
who only speaks to get someone off my back,
will ever get onstage
and say any of the things I’ve written,
out loud, to anybody else.
She must be out her damn mind.

Holding a Poem in the Body

Tonight after my shower
instead of staring at the parts of myself
I want to puzzle-piece into something else,
I watch my mouth memorize one of my poems.
Even though I don’t ever plan on letting anyone hear it,
I think about that poetry video from class. . . .
I let the words shape themselves hard on my tongue.
I let my hands pretend to be punctuation marks
that slash, and point, and press in on each other.
I let my body finally take up all the space it wants.
I toss my head, and screw up my face,
and grit my teeth, and smile, and make a fist,
and every one of my limbs
is an actor trying to take center stage.
And then Mami knocks on the door,
and asks me what I’m in here reciting,
that it better not be more rap lyrics,
and I respond, “Verses. I’m memorizing verses.”
I know she thinks I mean Bible ones.
I hide my notebook in my towel before heading to my room
and comfort myself with the fact that I didn’t actually lie.

J. Cole vs. Kendrick Lamar

Now that we’re doing real labs
Aman and I are forced to speak.
Mostly we mumble under our breath
about measurements and beakers,
but I can’t forget what I told Caridad:
I want to get to know him.
I ask him if he has the new J. Cole album.
Shuffle papers as I wait for him to answer.
Aman signs his name beneath mine on the lab report.
The bell rings, but neither of us moves.
Aman straightens and for the first time his eyes lock onto mine:
“Yeah, I got Cole, but I rather the Kendrick Lamar—
we should listen to his new album together sometime.”

Asylum

When my family first got a computer,
Twin and I were about nine.
And while Twin used it to look up astronomy discoveries
or the latest anime movies,
I used it to stream music.
Flipping the screen from music videos
to Khan Academy tutorials
whenever Mami walked into the room.
I fell in love with Nicki Minaj,
with J. Cole, with Drake and Kanye.
With old-school rappers like
Jay Z and Nas and Eve.
Every day I searched for new songs,
and it was like applying for asylum.
I just needed someone to help me escape
from all the silence.
I just needed people saying words
about all the things that hurt them.
And maybe this is why Papi stopped listening to music,
because it can make your body want to rebel. To speak up.
And even that young I learned music can become a bridge
between you and a total stranger.

What I Tell Aman:

“Maybe. I’ll let you know.”

Dreaming of Him Tonight

A boy’s face in my hands,
but he’s nearly a man.
Memories of Mami’s words
almost lash my fingers away
but still I brush upward,
against the grain and prickle
and bristle of a light beard at his jaw.
His cheekbones rise like a sun;
the large canvas of a forehead.
A nose that takes space.
This is a face that doesn’t apologize
for itself.
The boy moves his body closer to mine
and I can feel his hands
drop down from my waist to my hips
then brushing up toward these boobs I hate
that I now push at him like an offering,
his hands move so close, our faces move closer—
and then my phone alarm rings,
waking me up for school.
In my dreams his is a mouth that knows
more than curses and prayer. More
than bread and wine. More
than water. More
than blood.
More.

Thursday, September 20

The Thing about Dreams

When I get to school
I know I won’t be able to look Aman in the face.
You can’t dream about touching a boy
and then look at him in real life
and not think he’s going to see
that dream like a face full of makeup
blushing up your cheeks.
But even though I’m nervous
when I get to bio, the moment
I sit next to him I calm down.
Like my dream has given me
an inside knowledge
that takes away my nerves.
“I’d love to listen to Kendrick.
Maybe we could do it tomorrow?”

Date

This doesn’t count as a date.
Or even anything sinful.
Just two classmates
meeting up after school
to listen to music.
So I try not to freak out
when Aman agrees
to our non-date.

Mami’s Dating Rules

Rule 1. I can’t date.
Rule 2. At least until I’m married.
Rule 3. See rules 1 and 2.

Clarification on Dating Rules

The thing is,
my old-school
Dominican parents
Do. Not. Play.
Well, mostly Mami.
I’m not sure Papi
has any strong opinions,
or at least none he’s ever said.
But Mami’s been telling me
early as I can remember
I can’t have a boyfriend
until I’m done with college.
And even then,
she got strict rules
on what kind of boy
he better be.
And Mami’s words
have always been
scripture set in stone.
So I already know
going to a park
alone with Aman
might as well be
the eighth deadly sin.
But I can’t wait
to do it anyway.

Friday, September 21

Feeling Myself

All last night, I held the secret of meeting Aman
like a candle that could too easily be blown out.
Any time Mami said my name, or Twin looked in my direction,
I waited for them to ask what I was hiding.
This morning, I iron my shirt. A for-sure sign I’m scheming
since I hate to iron.
But no one says anything about the shirt,
or my new shea butter–scented lip balm.
And when I slide my jeans up my hips and shimmy into them
my legs feel powerful beneath my hands
and I smile over my shoulder at my bubble butt in the mirror.

Part II
And the Word
Was Made Flesh

Smoke Parks

Because I wouldn’t go to his house
(not that he asked me to!),
we both know that our secret friendship
can take place only in public.
Every Friday our school has a half day for professional development,
and today Aman and I shuffle to the smoke park nearby.
I’ve never smoked weed,
but I think Aman does sometimes after school;
I smell it on his sweater, and know the crowd he chills with.
But today the park is ours
and we sit on a bench with more
than our forearms “accidentally” rubbing.
His fingers brush against my face
as he places one of his earbuds in for me.
I can smell his cologne
and I want to lean in but I’m
afraid he’ll notice I’m sniffing him.
For a moment, the only thing I can hear
is my own heart loudly pumping
in my ears.
I close my eyes and let myself
find in music what I’ve always searched for:
a way away.
After an hour, when the album clicks off
and Aman tugs on my hand to pull me up from the bench
I hold on. Link my fingers with his for just a moment.
And walk to the train feeling truly thankful
that this city has so many people to hide me.

I Decided a Long Time Ago

Twin is the only boy I will ever love.
I don’t want a converted man-whore like my father
so the whole block talks about my family and me.
I don’t want a pretty boy,
or a superstar athlete, more in love with himself
than anyone else.
I wouldn’t even date a boy like Twin,
thinking people are inherently good,
always seeing the best in them.
But I have to love Twin.
Not just because we’re blood, but because
he’s the best boy I know.
He is also the worst twin in the world.
Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin
He looks nothing like me.
He’s small. Scrawny.
Straight-up scarecrow skinny.
(I must have bullied him in Mami’s belly
because it’s clear I stole all the nutrients.)
He wears glasses because he’s afraid
of poking an eye out by using contacts.
He doesn’t even try to look cool, or match.
He is, in fact, the worst Dominican:
doesn’t dance, his eyebrows connect slightly,
he rarely gets a shape-up, and he’d rather read
than watch baseball. And he hates to fight.
Didn’t even wrestle with me when we were little.
I’ve gotten into too many shove matches
trying to make sure Twin walked away
with his anime collection.
My brother ain’t no stereotype, that’s for sure.

Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin, for Real

Twin is a genius.
Full sentences at eight months old,
straight As since pre-K,
science experiments and scholarships
to space camp since fifth.
This also means we haven’t been
in the same grade since we were really little,
and then he got into a specialized high school,
so his book smarts meant
I couldn’t even copy his homework.
He is an award-winning bound book,
where I am loose and blank pages.
And since he came first, it’s his fault.
And I’m sticking to that.

Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin (Last and Most Important
Reason)

He has no twin intuition!
He doesn’t get sympathy pains.
He doesn’t ever randomly know
that I had a bad day or that I need help.
In fact, he rarely lifts his eyes from the
page of a Japanese comic or the computer screen
long enough to know that I’m here at all.

But Why Twin Is Still the Only Boy I’ll Ever Love

Because although speaking to him
is like talking to a scatterbrained saint,
every now and then, he’ll say, in barely a mumble,
something that shocks the shit out of me.
Today he looks up from his textbook and blinks.
“Xiomara, you look different.
Like something inside of you has shifted.”
I stop breathing for a moment.
Is my body marked by my afternoon with Aman?
Will Mami see him on me?
I look at Twin, the puzzled smile on his face;
I want to tell him he looks different, too—
maybe the whole world looks different
just because I brushed thighs with a boy.
But before I get the words out
Twin opens his big-ass mouth:
“Or maybe it’s just your menstrual cycle?
It always makes you look a little bloated.”
I toss a pillow at his head and laugh.
“Only you, Twin. Only you.”

Sunday, September 23

Communication

About A

Every time I think about Aman
poems build inside me
like I’ve been gifted a box of metaphor Legos
that I stack and stack and stack.
I keep waiting for someone to knock them over.
But no one at home cares about my scribbling.
Twin: oblivious—although happier than he usually looks.
Mami: thinking I’m doing homework.
Papi: ignoring me as usual . . . aka being Papi.
Me: writing pages and pages about a boy
and reciting them to myself like a song, like a prayer.

Monday, September 24

Catching Feelings

In school things feel so different.
Ms. Galiano asks me about the Spoken Word Poetry Club,
and I try to pretend I forgot about it.
But I think she can tell by my face
or my shrug that I’ve been secretly practicing.
That I spend more time writing poems
or watching performance videos on YouTube
than I do on her assignments.
At lunch, I sit with the same group I sat with last year,
a table full of girls that want to be left alone.
I find comfort in apples and my journal,
as the other girls read books over their lunch trays,
or draw manga, or silently text boyfriends.
Sharing space, but not words.
In bio, when I lower my ass into the seat
next to Aman, I wonder if I should sit slower,
or faster, if I should write neater,
or run a fingertip across his knuckles
when Mr. Bildner isn’t looking.
Instead Aman and I pass notes on scrap paper
talking about our days, our parents,
our favorite movies and songs,
and the next time we’ll go to the smoke park.
If my body was a Country Club soda bottle,
it’s one that has been shaken and dropped
and at any moment it’s gonna pop open
and surprise the whole damn world.

Notes with Aman

A: You ever messed with anyone in school?
X: Nah, never really be into anyone.
A: We not cute enough for you?
X: Nope. Ya ain’t.
A: Damn. Shit on my whole life!
X: You just want me to say you cute.
A: Do you think I am?
X: I’m still deciding ☺

Tuesday, September 25

What I Didn’t Say to Caridad in Confirmation Class

I wanted to tell her that if Aman were a poem
he’d be written slumped across the page,
sharp lines, and a witty punch line
written on a bodega brown paper bag.
His hands, writing gently on our lab reports,
turned into imagery,
his smile the sweetest unclichéd simile.
He is not elegant enough for a sonnet,
too well-thought-out for a free write,
taking too much space in my thoughts
to ever be a haiku.

Lectures

“Mira, muchacha,”—
(I’m not sure if your eyes
can roll so hard in your head
that a stranger could use them
as a pair of dice, but if they can
someone just bad lucked on snake eyes)—
“when I was waiting for you
I saw you whispering to Caridad
in the middle of your class.
Do not let yourself get distracted
so that you lead yourself and others
from la palabra de dios.”
And although the night has cooled down
the fading summer heat,
sweat breaks out on my forehead,
my tongue feels swollen,
dry and heavy with all I can’t say.

Ms. Galiano’s Sticky Note on Top of Assignment 1

Xiomara,
Although you say you’re only “dressing your thoughts
in poems,” I’ve found several of your assignments
quite poetic. I wonder why you don’t consider yourself
a poet?
I love that your brother gave you a notebook you still
use. You really should come to the poetry club. I have a
feeling you’d get a lot out of it.
—G

Sometimes Someone Says Something

And their words are like the catch of a gas stove,
the click, click while you’re waiting
for it to light up and then flame big and blue. . . .
That’s what happens when I read Ms. Galiano’s note.
A bright light lit up inside me.
But now I crumple up the note and assignment
and throw them out in the cafeteria trash can.
Because every day the idea of poetry club is like Eve’s apple:
something you can want but can’t have.

Friday, September 28

Listening

Today when Aman and I sit on the bench
I wait for him to pass me his headphones,
but he plays with my fingers instead.
“No music today, X.
Instead I want to hear you.
Read me something.”
And I instantly freeze.
Because I never, never read my work.
But Aman just sits patiently.
And with my heart thumping
I pull my notebook out.
“You better not laugh.”
But he just leans back and closes his eyes.
And so I read to him.
Quietly. A poem about Papi.
My heart pumps hard in my chest,
and the page trembles when I turn it,
and I rush through all the words.
And when I’m done I can’t look at Aman.
I feel as naked as if I’d undressed before him.
But he just keeps fiddling with my fingers.
“Makes me think of my mother being gone.
You got bars, X. I’m down to listen to them anytime.”

Mother Business

Aman and I don’t really talk about our families like that.
I know the rules. You don’t ask about people’s parents.
Most folks got only one person at home,
and that person isn’t even always the egg or the sperm donor.
But I feel like I said too much and too little about Papi.
And now I want to know more about Aman’s family.
“Can you tell me about your moms? Why is she gone?”
His mouth looks zipped-up silent.
We are quiet for a while and there’s no noise to cover my shiver.
Even lost in his thoughts, Aman notices,
tucks my hand clasped with his inside his jacket pocket.
I’m glad the cold breeze is a good excuse
for why my cheeks go pink. He finally looks at me.
His eyes trying to read something in my face.
I don’t expect him to ever answer.

And Then He Does

“My moms was a beautiful woman.
She and Pops married when they were teens.
He came here first, then sent for us.
I was old enough when I came here
that I can remember Trinidad:
the palm tree behind my grandma’s house,
the taste of backyard mangoes,
the song in the voice every time someone spoke.
I was young enough to learn how my accent
could be rolled tight between my lips
until this country smoked it out
into that clipped ‘good-accented English.’
My mother never came, you know.
She would call every day at first
and always tell me the same thing,
she ‘was handling affairs.’ ‘We’ll be together soon.’
She calls every year on my birthday.
I’ve stopped asking her when she’s coming.
Pops and I get on just fine.
I’ve learned not to be angry.
Sometimes the best way to love someone
is to let them go.”

Warmth

Aman and I walk from our park
but instead of walking straight to the train
we skip the station, then the next.
We are silent the whole walk.
Without words we are in agreement
that we’ll walk as far as we can this way:
my hand held in his held
in his coat pocket. Each of us keeping
the other warm against the quiet chill.

Tuesday, October 9

The Next Couple of Weeks

Pass by like an express train
and before I know it,
October has cooled the air,
and we’re all pressed into
hoodies and jackets.
I try to avoid Ms. Galiano,
who always reminds me
I’m more than welcome
to join poetry club.
Aman and I don’t share
a lunch period but we walk together
to the train after school,
listening to music or just enjoying the quiet.
I think we both want to do more,
but I’m still too shy and he’s still too . . . Aman.
Which means he never presses too hard
and I have to wonder if he’s being respectful
or isn’t feeling me like that.
But he wouldn’t be hanging out with me so much
if he wasn’t feeling me, right?
And although I still want to stay seated during Communion,
I get up every time, put the wafer in my mouth
then slip it beneath the pew.
My hands shaking less and less every time I do.
The hardest thing has been Tuesdays.
I sit in confirmation class
knowing I could be in poetry club instead,
or writing, or doing anything other
than trying to unhear everything Father Sean says.
And I do a good job of pretending.
At least until the day
I open my usually silent mouth
and decide to ask Father Sean
about Eve.

Eve,

Father Sean explains,
could have made a better choice.
Her story is a parable
to teach us how to deal with temptation.
Resist the apple.
And for some reason,
either because of what I’m learning
in school and in real life,
I think it all just seems like bullshit.
So I say so. Out loud. To Father Sean.
Next to me Caridad goes completely still.

“I Think the Story of Genesis Is Mad Stupid”

“God made the Earth in seven days?
Including humans, right?
But in biology we learned
dinosaurs existed on Earth
for millions of years
before other species . . .
unless the seven days is a metaphor?
But what about humans evolving
from apes? Unless Adam’s creation
was a metaphor, too?
And about this apple,
how come God didn’t explain
why they couldn’t eat it?
He gave Eve curiosity
but didn’t expect her to use it?
Unless the apple is a metaphor?
Is the whole Bible a poem?
What’s not a metaphor?
Did any of it actually happen?”
I catch my breath. Look around the room.
Caridad is bright red.
The younger kids are silent,
watching like it’s a WWE match.
And Father Sean’s face has turned
hard as the marble altar.
“Why don’t you and I talk
after class, Xiomara?”

As We Are Packing to Leave

C: Xiomara, if Father Sean says something to your moms
it’s going to be a hot mess—
X: So what? Aren’t we supposed to be curious
about the things that we’re told?
C: Listen. Don’t come at me like that, Xiomara.
I’m just trying to help you.
X: I know, I know. But . . . they were just questions.
Aren’t priests obligated to confidentiality?
C: That wasn’t a confession, Xiomara.
X doesn’t say: Wasn’t it?

Father Sean

Tells me
I seem distracted in confirmation class.
Tells me
perhaps there is something I’d like to discuss besides Eve.
Tells me
it’s normal to be curious about the world.
Tells me
Catholicism invites curiosity.
Tells me
I should find solace in a forgiving religion.
Tells me
the church is here for me if I need it.
Tells me
maybe I should have a conversation with my mother.
Tells me
open and honest dialogue is good for growth.
Tells me
a lot of things but none of them an answer to anything I asked.

Answers

After Father Sean’s lecture, he seems to expect answers from me.
I stare at the picture behind his desk.
It’s him in a boxing ring holding a pair of gold gloves.
“You still fight, Father Sean?”
He cocks his head at me, and his lips quirk up a bit.
“Every now and then I get into a ring to stay in shape.
I definitely don’t fight as much as I used to.
Not every fight can be fought with gloves, Xiomara.”
I stand. I tell Father Sean I won’t ask about Eve again.
I leave church before he asks me something I can’t answer.

Rough Draft Assignment 2—Last paragraphs of My Biography

And that’s how Xiomara,
bare-knuckled, fought the world
into calling her correctly by her name,
into not expecting her to be a saint,
into respecting her as a whole grown-ass woman.
She knew since she was little,
the world would not sing her triumphs,
but she took all of the stereotypes
and put them in a chokehold
until they breathed out the truth.
Xiomara may be remembered
as a lot of things: a student,
a miracle, a protective sister,
a misunderstood daughter,
but most importantly,
she should be remembered
as always working to become
the warrior she wanted to be.

Final Draft of Assignment 2 (What I Actually Turn In)

Xiomara Batista
Monday, October 15
Ms. Galiano
Last Paragraphs of My Biography, Final Draft

Xiomara’s accomplishments amounted to several key achievements. She was a writer who went on to create a nonprofit organization for first-generation teenage girls. Her center helped young women explain to their parents why they should be allowed to date, and go away for college, and move out when they turned eighteen . . . also, how to discover what they wanted to do in life. It was an organization that helped thousands of young women, and although they never built a statue outside the center (she would have hated that) they did hang a super-blown-up selfie of her in the main office.

Since her parents were distraught that the neighborhood had changed, that there were no more Latino families and the bodegas and sastrería were all closed down, Xiomara used her earnings to buy them a house in the Dominican Republic. Although she was never married and didn’t have children, Xiomara was happy with a big pit bull and a brownstone in Harlem not too far from the neighborhood where she was raised. Her twin brother lived down the street.

Hands

In bio
Aman’s hand has started
finding mine inside the desk.
I hope I don’t sweat
as his finger fiddles
across my palm.
I wonder if he’s nervous
like me. If he’s frontin’
like me.
Pretending I’ve played
with someone’s hand,
and done even more.
And even though
I’ve dreamt about him before,
there’s something different
about touching a guy
in real life. In the flesh.
Inside a classroom. More than once.
His hand lighting a match
inside my body.

Fingers

In bed at night
my fingers search
a heat I have no name for.
Sliding into a center,
finding a hidden core,
or stem, or maybe the root.
I’m learning how to caress
and breathe at the same time.
How to be silent
and feel something grow
inside me.
And when it all builds up,
I sink into my mattress.
I feel such a release. Such a relief.
I feel such a shame
settle like a blanket
covering me head to toe.
To make myself feel this way
is a dirty thing, right?
Then why does it feel so good?

Tuesday, October 16

Talking Church

“So you go to church a lot, right?”
Aman asks as we walk to the train.
And any words I have
suicide-jump off my tongue.
Because this is it.
Either he’s going to think
I’m a freak of the church
who’s too holy to do anything,
or he’s going to think I’m
a church freak trying to get it on
with the first boy who tries.
“X?”
And I try to focus on that,
how much I love this new nickname.
How it’s such a small letter
but still fits all of me.
“Xiomara?”
I finally turn to look at him.
“Yeah. My moms is big into church
and I go with her and to confirmation classes.”
“So your moms is big into the church,
but you, what are you big into?”
And I let loose the breath that I was holding.
And before I know I’m going to say them
the words have already escaped my mouth.
“You already know I’m into poetry.”
And he nods. Looks at me and seems to decide something.
“So what’s your stage name, Xiomara?”
And I’m so glad he’s changed the subject.
That I answer before I think:
“I’m just a writer . . . but maybe I’d be the Poet X.”
He smiles. “I think that fits you perfectly.”

Swoon

In science we learned
that thermal conductivity
is how heat flows through
some materials better than others.
But who knew words,
when said by the right person,
by a boy who raises your temperature,
move heat like nothing else?
Shoot a shock of warmth
from your curls to your toes?

Telephone

Twin doesn’t ask who I’m texting
so late into the night that the glow
of my phone is the only light
in the whole apartment.
And I don’t offer to tell him
or to hide my texting
beneath my blanket.
I’ve never been superfriendly,
and Caridad is the only person
we really talk to, unless I’m working
on a class project or something.
But now I have Aman,
sweet and patient Aman,
who sends me Drake lyrics
that he says remind him of me
and asks me to whisper him poems in return.
Who never grows tired of my writing
and always asks for one more.
Twin doesn’t ask who I’m texting.
Though I know he’s wondering
because I’m wondering who he’s been texting, too.
The reason why he’s smiling more now.
And giggles in the dark,
the glow of his phone letting me know
we both have secrets to keep.

Over Breakfast

Twin is singing underneath his breath
as he pours milk into his cereal.
I watch him as I sip on a cup of coffee.
He slices up an apple and gives me half.
He knows they’re my favorite,
but I’m surprised he’s being so thoughtful.
“Twin, you been smiling more lately.
This person got a name?”
And my words make the smile
slip and slide right off his face.
He shakes his head at me,
pushes his cereal away.
He plays with the tablecloth.
“Is that why you been smiling so much?”
And to cover my blush,
I gulp down the last of my coffee.
“I’m just happy; you know what we should plan?
Our scary movie date for Halloween. You and me.”
And we both say at the same time:
“And Caridad.”

Angry Cat, Happy X

C: Girl, this angry cat meme reminded me of you.
X: Smh. Ur dumb. I was just about to text you.
Scary movie Halloween date?
C: Duh! How you doing? How’s that boy you feeling?
X: I’m good . . . He’s fine.
C: Why “. . .” ?
X: I know you don’t approve.
C: Xio, I just don’t want you getting in trouble.
But I like seeing you happy . . . Like this happy cat meme!

Friday, October 19

About Being in Like

The smoke park is empty again.
And I’m so glad we finally
have another half day.
The afternoon stretches before us.
No Mami to call me. She’s still at work.
Twin’s genius school runs on a different schedule.
Caridad never texts during class.
It’s just me and Aman
and his hand brushing my cheek
to insert an earbud.
“You ever smoked a blunt?”
I shake my head.
“Word. Drake is better when you lit.
But we can listen to him anyways.”
And so I shut my eyes,
pressing my shoulder closer to his
as he settles his iPhone between us,
as he settles his hand on my thigh.

Music

Tuesday, October 23

Ring the Alarm

The day that becomes THE DAY
starts real regular. Same schedule,
and nothing changed ’til last-period bio.
It’s the first Tuesday
since “the Eve episode”
and with thirty minutes left of school
a fire alarm goes off.
Mr. Bildner sighs and stops the PowerPoint
that was showing us how Darwin
figured out finches.
Aman squeezes my hand beneath the desk
and stands. Slings his bag across his shoulders
(he never puts it in his locker).
Before I know what I’m saying
the words skip like small rocks out my mouth:
“We should go to the park.”
They sink in silence. He cocks his head.
“You know Bildner’s going to take attendance
if this is a false alarm?”
The class lines up to exit
and as we scrunch together
my ass bumps Aman’s front.
I don’t move away.
I whisper over my shoulder,
“We should still go.”
Aman’s finger pulls on one of my curls.
“I didn’t know you liked Drake enough
to get caught cutting.”
I lean back against him,
feel his body pressed against mine.
“Drake isn’t the one that I like.”

DMU Timestamp: October 05, 2023 23:32