[3 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

The Day
Wants
At My Train Stop
What I Don’t Tell Aman
Kiss Stamps
The Last Fifteen-Year-Old
Concerns
What Twin Knows
Hanging Over My Head
Friday
Black & Blue
Tight
Excuses
Costume Ready
Reuben’s House Party
One Dance
Stoop-Sitting . . . with Aman
Convos with Caridad
Braiding
Fights
Scrapping
What We Don’t Say
Gay
Feeling Off When Twin Is Mad
Rough Draft of Assignment 3—Describe someone you consider misunderstood by society.
Final Draft of Assignment 3 (What I Actually Turn In)
Announcements
Ice-Skating
Until
Love
Around and Around We Go
After Skating
This Body on Fire
The Shit & the Fan
Miracles
Fear
Ants
I Am No Ant
Diplomas
Cuero
Mami Says,
Repetition
Things You Think While You’re Kneeling on Rice That Have Nothing to Do with Repentance:
Another Thing You Think While You’re Kneeling on Rice That Has Nothing to Do with
Repentance:
The Last Thing You Think While You’re Kneeling on Rice That Has Nothing to Do with
Repentance:
Leaving
What Do You Need from Me?
Consequences
Late That Night
In Front of My Locker

The Day

We are side by side
sitting on our park bench.
Aman slides his arm around my shoulder
and pulls me closer to him.
Today there are no headphones,
no music, just us.
He brushes his lips across my forehead
and I shiver from something other than cold.
His fingers tip up my chin;
my hands instantly get sweaty and I can’t look at him
so I stare at his eyebrows: cleanly arched,
no stray hairs, prettier than any girl’s,
and I lean in trying to figure out
if he waxes or threads.
Then he’s leaning in too and I know
I have one moment to make a decision.
So I press my lips to his.
His mouth is soft against mine.
Gently, he bites my bottom lip.
And then his tongue slides in my mouth.
It’s messier than I thought it’d be.
He must notice, because
his tongue slows down.
And my heart is one of Darwin’s finches learning to fly.

Wants

As much as boys and men
have told me all of the things
they would like to do to my body,
this is the first time I’ve actually wanted
some of those things done.

At My Train Stop

My train pulls slowly into the station
so I take my hand out of Aman’s.
He looks at me with a question on his face
and I can feel the heat creep up my cheeks.
He’s asking me something
but I can’t hear a word he’s saying
because I keep getting distracted by his lips
and the fact that I now know how they taste.
“X, did you hear me?
I’ll text you later. Maybe we can go out this weekend?
To Reuben’s Halloween party?”
I hop off the train without giving him an answer,
without waving at him through the window.
With too many things to say and nothing to say at all.

What I Don’t Tell Aman

I can’t date.
I can’t be seen on my block with boys.
I can’t have a boy call my cell phone.
I can’t hold hands with a boy.
I can’t go to his house.
I can’t invite him to mine.
I can’t hang out with him and his friends.
I can’t go to the movies with any boy other than Twin.
I can’t go to teen night at the club.
I can’t have a boyfriend.
I can’t fall in love.
Whenever we text late at night
I avoid mentioning making plans.
I tell him “I just want to live in the moment.”
Because I don’t want to tell him all the things I can’t do.
But I also shouldn’t kiss a boy in the smoke park . . .
and yet, I did that, too.

Kiss Stamps

Later, when I walk into confirmation class
I know I’m wearing Aman’s kiss
like a bright red sweater.
Anyone who looks at me
will know I know what it means to want.
In that way. Because I didn’t want to stop kissing.
And we didn’t.
Until his hands moved under
my shirt and I jumped at the chill.
Maybe I jumped at something else.
Guilt? How fast we’re moving?
I don’t know, but I knew it was time to stop.
But I didn’t want to.
I mean, I guess I did.
It’s confusing to know
you shouldn’t be doing something,
that it might go too far,
but still wanting to do it anyway.
I don’t whisper with Caridad,
or make eye contact with anyone,
or question Father Sean,
or look at the cross
bearing an all-knowing God who, if he exists,
saw everything, everything
that happened in the smoke park.
And how much I enjoyed it.

The Last Fifteen-Year-Old

Okay. I know. It’s not that deep to kiss a guy.
It’s just a kiss, some tongue, little kids kiss all the time,
probably not with tongue (that’d be weird).
Boys have wanted to kiss me
since I was eleven, and back then I didn’t want to kiss them.
And then it was grown-ass boys, or legit men,
giving me sneaky looks, and Mami told me I’d have to pray extra
so my body didn’t get me into trouble.
And I knew then what I’d known since my period came:
my body was trouble. I had to pray the trouble out
of the body God gave me. My body was a problem.
And I didn’t want any of these boys to be the ones to solve it.
I wanted to forget I had this body at all.
So when everyone in middle school was playing truth or dare,
or whatever other excuse to get their first kiss,
I was hiding in big sweaters, I was hiding in hard silence,
trying to turn this body into an invisible equation.
Until now. Now I want Aman to balance my sides,
to leave his fingerprints all over me. To show all his work.

Concerns

Father Sean asks me if things are going well?
And for a second, I think he knows about the kiss.
That through some divine premonition
or psychic ability . . . he knows.
But then I see him glance at the altar
at the covered chalice full of wine,
the plate holding the soft circles of the body of Christ.
I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I don’t say.
I just shrug. And look anywhere else.
“We all doubt ourselves sometimes,” he tells me.
I look him straight in the eye: “Even you?”
He gives me a small smile that makes him look younger. . . .
You ever look at someone that you’ve known
your whole life and it’s almost like their face
reconfigures itself right in front of your eyes?
Father Sean’s smile makes him look different
and I can imagine the young man he once was.
“Especially me. My whole life I wanted to be a boxer,
an athlete. I thought my body was my way out
of the terrible circumstances I lived in—instead
it was the body of Christ that got me out,
but sometimes I miss my island. My family.
My mother died and I didn’t get there in time to say good-bye.
We all doubt ourselves and our path sometimes.”
I want to say I’m sorry, to bring back the young Father Sean smile
but instead I merely nod.
Some things don’t need words.

What Twin Knows

“Twin, you know Father Sean’s mom died?”
Twin looks up distracted from his phone,
where his fingers have been rapidly texting.
I try to read over his shoulder but he flips
it screen-down on the desk.
“Yeah, she died three summers ago.
Why you bringing that up?”
And I don’t know how I didn’t know.
How I didn’t notice Father Sean gone,
or notice the person who took over his sermons.
Have I been checked out of church for that long?
I don’t ask Twin any of these questions.
He’s already back on his phone.
“Who you been texting so much lately?”
The question shoulders past my lips
and I stop with one of my headphones
halfway into my ear.
Twin has never kept secrets from me.
His thumbs go still on his phone.
And he gives me a long, long look.
“Xiomara, we don’t have to do this, right?
Maybe with everyone else we need to explain.
But we both know we’re messing around
and that Mami and Papi will kill us if they find out.”
And I want to nod my head, and shake it no at the same time.
Our parents always say that as la niña de la casa
expectations for me are different than for Twin.
If he brought a girl home they would probably applaud him.
I don’t know what they would do
if the person he brought home was not a girl.

Hanging Over My Head

The next couple of days,
I wait for Aman
to bring up the Halloween party.
But he holds my hand in bio,
walks me to the train in the afternoons,
kisses me good-bye before I exit to the platform,
and doesn’t mention the party again.
Maybe he doesn’t want me to go anymore?

Friday, October 26

Friday

Is usually my favorite day of the week.
But this morning I got a text from Aman
that flavored my whole day sour:
A: Got a doc appointment.
Not coming to school.
See ya at the party?
And I know it’s going to be
a long two days between
now and when I’ll see him again.
Unless I figure out a way . . .

Black & Blue

What kind of twin am I
who didn’t even notice
when my own brother
comes home with a black eye?
I mean I noticed, but not until
I heard Mami yelling at him tonight
while he was getting
something from the fridge.
“¿Y eso, muchacho? ¿Quién te pegó?
¿No me digas que fue Xiomara?”
But I’m already halfway to the kitchen,
then pulling his chin from her grip,
inspecting his eye myself.
I don’t say a word to him
and Twin’s face flinches in my hand.
“No es nada. It’s nothing.
It was just a misunderstanding.”
And although he’s answering her,
his eyes are pleading with me.
“Yeah, looks like some asshole
misunderstood your face
for a punching bag.”
Mami looks back and forth between us,
probably only catching
every other word of the English,
but even she knows when it’s a twin thing.

Tight

I’m so heated
with Twin
for not telling me
someone at school
was bothering him
that I stop speaking.
It’s a silent Friday.
On Saturday
I wake up
with a different feeling
tightening my belly.
I want to go to the party.
I want to see Aman.
The boys in my life
will drive me crazy
one way or another.

Saturday, October 27

Excuses

X: Hey, so, would you be really mad
if I didn’t go with you and Twin to the movies—
C: Is this about the boy?
X: Kinda . . . I’m telling my mother I’m hanging out with you.
I’ll be home at the same time as you both.
C: Is he making you lie to your mother?
X: He’s not making me do anything. Except meet him at a party.
C: Be safe, Xio. . . . Your brother’s been acting strange lately.
Are you sure he’s coming to the movies?
X: Yeah . . . he has a lot going on. Don’t ask about his black eye.
But he’ll be there.
C: Black eye? Did you hit him, Xiomara?
X: Why does everyone keep asking that? No!
But I’m going to hit the dude who did.
C: Don’t make it any worse.
You know your brother hates confrontation.
X: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Thanks for not being mad at me.
C: Just don’t get pregnant. I’m too young to be a godmother.

Costume Ready

I leave with Twin to “the movies”
although we go in different directions
once we get to the corner.
He walks toward Caridad’s house,
and I walk to the train station
on my way up to the Heights.
A block away from Reuben’s house
I sneak into a Starbucks bathroom
and put on green eye shadow, fluff my curls.
Tug on the hem of Twin’s Green Lantern tee
(it fits tight around my boobs and shows some midriff.
I’m glad Mami didn’t ask to see what I had on under my jacket.)
and voilà—a half-assed superhero costume.

Reuben’s House Party

When I get to the address in Washington Heights
I know I’m too early.
There are only a handful of people there,
who, like me, made bootleg attempts at a costume.
I see a couple of people I know from school,
but no one I would hang out with.
This is a party crowd: the loudest, the boldest,
the ones who smoke during the school day,
and drink their parents’ mamajuana on the weekend.
Someone hands me a cup of fruity drink
but I put it down on the TV stand, lean against the wall.
I don’t look at the clock blinking from the DVD player;
I don’t look at my phone.
I’ve got an alarm set so I know when to leave.
For now I just listen to the noise, to the music,
ignore the stares of a group of boys by the speakers.
When someone brushes my hand I brace myself, tighten my jaw,
but when I turn it’s Aman. Playing with my fingers, smiling.
“I didn’t think you were going to make it.
Do you want something to drink?”
I shake my head no. And take in his outfit. He went all out.
Face painted green, waves spinning, T-shirt stuffed with something,
all his lean self trying to look like the Hulk.
I can’t hold my laughter and he only smiles wider.
“We are meant to be,” he whispers.
“We both chose green superheroes.”
Someone lowers the lights.
Aman tugs on my hand. “Dance with me?”

One Dance

When Aman asks, my heart starts thumping.
Because this isn’t bachata or merengue or something
with coordinated steps and distance.
This song is the kind you get close for.
I push off the wall and Aman shifts in front of me,
his hands holding my hips.
I close my eyes and wipe my sweaty palms
on the back of his shirt; we’re pressed against each other,
swaying, his mouth near my neck.
The shoulder pads under his costume
give me something to hold on to,
and I’m glad we have at least the padding between us.
Then his leg is between mine
and we’re dancing exactly the way people do
in music videos.
Like if they weren’t wearing clothes
they’d be . . . you know.
I can feel all of him. Not as scrawny as I thought.
When the song is over,
another reggae one comes on and Aman
rotates so now he’s behind me.
His body grinds against mine,
and it feels so good.
I push away from him.
“I need some air.”

Stoop-Sitting . . . with Aman

Outside of Reuben’s building,
the Heights is on fire.
People dressed in all kinds of costumes,
laughing, and yelling, and singing,
you would think it was morning and not 9:30 p.m.
Aman holds my hand in his
but every time I look at him
I’m afraid my cheeks will burst
bright red, so I don’t.
And then he drops the bomb:
“I don’t live too far from here.”
And I don’t know if he means
he wants me to go to his house,
or if he’s just talking to talk.
“Isn’t your father home?”
I really hope his father’s home.
Aman shakes his head.
Tells me his father works tonight.
I pull my hand from his.
I can’t stop my fingers
from trembling.
I don’t have to fake when I tell him
I don’t feel great.
That I should get home
and make tea or something.
I get up to leave, but before I do,
Aman tugs at my hand:
“Read me a poem, X?
I want to remember your voice
when I think about tonight.”
And then he’s grinning again
and pulls me down beside him.

Convos with Caridad

X: I’m on my way home.
C: Good, because Xavier and I been standing on the corner forever.
X: Thanks again. I know you hate lying.
C: Yeah. It better have been worth it.
Was it worth it?
X: It was . . . a lot. I have a lot of feelings. But it was fine.
C: ???
X: It just can’t last. Something is gonna go wrong.
I’m not allowed to be happy while breaking all rules.
C: Maybe you shouldn’t break them?
X: Oh, Caridad. I can’t wait until you like someone. . . .
I’ll make sure to send you all these wise-ass texts, too.
C: Girl, bye. With your hotheaded self?
You’ll never be wise as me ☺.

Sunday, October 28

Braiding

I spent the entire Mass thinking about Aman.
And I can tell Mami is going to lecture me
for not paying any attention.
But thank goodness, as we are leaving church,
Caridad tugs on my hand.
“Señora Batista, is it okay
if Xiomara comes and braids my hair?”
I can tell Mami wants to chew me out
but she can never say no to Caridad.
At her house, Caridad sits between my legs,
and I run the comb through her long thick hair.
I learned to braid when Mami
didn’t have time to do mine anymore.
“Two long braids? I can make you look
like Cardi B for Halloween.”
I love the reality TV star, but she’s everything Caridad isn’t.
Caridad gives me a smirk and nods her head.
“Sure. I’ll put on old episodes of Love & Hip Hop
so you can feel inspired.”
Even after I’m done braiding, we sit and watch two more episodes.
Maybe, the only thing that has to make sense
about being somebody’s friend
is that you help them be their best self
on any given day. That you give them a home
when they don’t want to be in their own.
At least I have a feeling if I asked, that’s exactly
what Caridad would say.
Tomorrow is going to be a long-ass day.
But here and now, it’s okay.

Monday, October 29

Fights

On Monday afternoon,
I lean against the gate of Twin’s genius school.
When Aman asked why I was taking a train downtown
I kissed it off, but I’m sure he’ll bring it up later.
So much happened this weekend,
but still I prepared myself for what I knew
I would have to do this afternoon.
Twin gets out an hour later than I do,
and as the kids start filing out after the bell
I spot Twin shuffling my way, but he’s not alone.
He’s with a tall, red-haired boy,
with fingers the color of milk
that brush lint off my brother’s sweater softly
the way Aman sometimes squeezes my hand.
Xavier.
Twin’s name never leaves my lips
but somehow he hears me think it.
His head pops in my direction
like a bobble-head doll.
He stumbles back from the white boy so fast
he almost trips on his shoes.
I look between them, confirming what I’ve always known.
Twin rushes my way and speaks into my ear.
“Xiomara, what are you doing here?”
And I don’t need to tell him
I came to knock my knuckles into someone’s face.
To redeem his black eye.
To let them know Twin isn’t alone.
“You shouldn’t have come to my school.
I don’t need you to fight for me anymore.”
There is a balloon where my heart used to be
and it whooshes air out at the prick of his words.
I look at the boy who gazes at Twin
with love all over his face.
“Leave it alone, Xiomara,”
I think Twin says. But it sounds more like:
“Leave me alone.”

Scrapping

I’m not stupid, you know.
I know I’m not gonna be thirty
fighting grown-ass men.
I know I’m not always going to be
bigger and meaner than the boys
in my grade. I know one day,
they’ll be stronger and hit back harder.
I know I won’t always intimidate girls
with my height, with my hard hands.
I know I won’t be able to defend Twin
forever. But I thought when it happened
it would be because he would fight for himself,
not just find someone else to protect him.

What We Don’t Say

On the train ride home
Twin steps into his feelings
like they’re a gated-off room
I don’t have visitation rights to.
He spends the entire time
playing chess on his phone.
“Twin. I know you’ve probably felt this way
your whole entire life but
if Mami and Papi find out about White Boy
they will legit kill you.”
His fingers move a rook across the screen,
attacking some imaginary opponent.
“Cody. Not White Boy.
And I know what Mami and Papi will say.
What you’re going to say, too.”
But I don’t even know what I’m going to say.
I only know I’ve always wanted to keep him safe,
but this makes him a target
and I can’t defend against the arrows I know are coming.

Gay

I’ve always known.
Without knowing.
That Twin was.
We never said.
I think he was scared.
I think I was, too.
He’s Mami’s miracle.
He would become her sin.
I guess I hoped.
If I didn’t ever really know.
It would be like he wasn’t.
But maybe my silence.
Just made him feel more alone.
Maybe my silence.
Condones the ugly things people think.
All that I know.
Is that I don’t know
how to move forward
from this.

Feeling Off When Twin Is Mad

A part of myself rebels against the discord.
It might sound dumb, and not all twins are like us,
but when he’s angry it throws me off.
I can’t think of anything but him being upset
and I’m afraid anything I say will make him angrier.
I don’t even know what I did wrong.
I’ve been fighting dudes for Twin my whole life.
Why did he think I wouldn’t show up at his school?
Not even Aman’s emoji smiley faces
and links to Ja Rule’s old romantic rap videos
are enough to make me feel better.

Rough Draft of Assignment 3—Describe someone you consider misunderstood by society.

When I was little
Mami was my hero.
Because she barely spoke English
and wasn’t born here,
but she didn’t let that stop her
from defending herself
if she got cut in line at the grocery store,
or from fighting to get Twin into a genius school.
Because I’ve never seen her
ask my father for money
or complain about her job.
Because her hands will be scraped raw from work
but she still folds them to pray.
When I was little
Mami was my hero.
But then I grew breasts
and although she was always extra hard on me,
her attention became something else,
like she wanted to turn me
into the nun
she could never be.

Final Draft of Assignment 3 (What I Actually Turn In)

Xiomara Batista
Tuesday, November 6
Ms. Galiano
Describe Someone Misunderstood by Society, Final Draft

I’ve always found Nicki Minaj compelling. Although she gets a bad reputation for being “overly sexual” and making songs like “Anaconda,” I think the persona she portrays in her videos is really different from who she is in real life. So, the question should be, “Does society distinguish between who someone actually is and the alter ego they present to the public?” For example, Ms. Minaj may have lyrics that some people feel are a bad influence, but then she’s always tweeting people to stay in school.

I also think society puts a negative spin on her music by saying she’s allowing men to dictate how she raps, but a lot of her music shows a positive outlook on physical beauty. She is well developed and people always have a lot of negative things to say about her because of her body and how she talks about it and sex, but instead of being ashamed or writing something different, she celebrates her curves and what she wants.

And all that is besides the fact that she also GOT BARS . . . by which I mean to say, she is very artistically talented! She’s not just a great “female rapper,” she’s a great rapper, period. Ms. Minaj has held her own on tracks with some of the best rappers in the world. She is a woman in a male-dominated world making albums that go platinum. I know she’s not considered most women’s role model like Eleanor Roosevelt or Mother Teresa, or even Beyoncé, but I think she stands for girls who don’t fit into society’s cookie-cutter mold. Misunderstood? Perhaps by some. But those of us who can relate, we get her.

Wednesday, November 7

Announcements

At the end of class Ms. Galiano
brings in a student from her poetry club.
He’s a Puerto Rican kid I’ve seen around,
with glasses and a kind smile.
He says his name is Chris,
and he invites us to join the club.
Then he does a short poem
using his hands and his volume to grab our attention.
Ms. Galiano looks on like a proud mama bear,
and the class gives him halfhearted claps, and a dap or two.
Chris hands out flyers for the citywide slam
and personally invites everyone to come to a poetry club
meeting.
The slam is three months away.
February 8.
Ms. Galiano says it’s open to the public.
And even if we don’t sign up
we should attend and support Chris, and our peers.
And I feel my face get hot.
I should be there.
I could compete.

Ice-Skating

When I was little, Mami would take Twin and me
ice-skating every year for our birthday, January 8.
She would work the holidays to make sure
she had the afternoon off. I always think of ice-skating as a gift.
And although Twin is super uncoordinated,
and I’ve always been a tank in tights,
we were real good at skating.
It was one thing we both did right.
We took to the ice, falling only a few times
before we streamed easily in the circular rink.
Mami would post up behind the glass,
never rented skates herself.
Just watched us turn in circle after circle.
This was a tradition for years.
Until one day it just wasn’t.
Until Twin and I stopped asking.
Until I forgot what it felt like to slice through the cold,
maybe like a knife, but mostly like a girl,
skating with her arms out, laughing with her brother
while her mother took pictures in the falling snow.

Until

I completely forgot about the skating adventures
we used to go on until Aman asks me to go skating.
I tell him I have to be home straight after school,
and half days won’t give us enough time.
“What about tomorrow, no school since teachers are grading exams.”
And I’m stuck. It is a day off
and one when Mami will be at work
so it’s not like she’ll know I’m not home.
I begin to shake my head,
and then I remember how free I felt on the ice,
how wonderful it was.
And I know I want Aman to see me feeling all that.

Love

Turns out, Aman loves winter sports.
It’s the last thing I would have imagined,
but he names professional snowboarders
and skiers, and figure skaters
in the same tone reserved for his favorite rappers.
“X, I’m serious. Even made Pops pay
for a special TV channel so I could keep up.”
At first I think he’s joking, but the way his eyes light up
I can tell this is really a passion of his.
Maybe like my writing. A secret thing he’s loved
that he never felt he could talk about.
He tells me that in Trinidad he was fascinated by snow.
And watching the Winter Olympics was the closest he could get.
And then that became a bigger love.
“X, I’m letting you know right now, I’m nice with the skates.
Prepare to fall in love tomorrow.”
And my heart stutters over the word.
How could I do anything but agree to the date?

Thursday, November 8

Around and Around We Go

The next day shines perfect. I invite Twin to come along,
but he only turns his back to me and keeps on pretending to sleep.
He’s still upset about my showing up to his school.
And I’m trying to give him space.
Aman is near the skate rental when I arrive,
and all around us kids are walking and laughing.
He holds out a pair of skates and after we’re laced up
and have rented a locker we walk awkwardly to the ice.
I take a deep breath at the pang of nostalgia.
So many good memories at Lasker Rink.
I hope to add one more.
I step onto the ice and it all comes back to me.
Aman hasn’t moved and I backward skate,
slowly crooking my finger at him.
I blush immediately. I’m never the one to make the first move.
But he seems to like it and steps onto the ice.
He starts off slow. And we both face forward, skating side by side.
Then it’s like something comes over him.
And I realize he wasn’t lying. He’s. Fucking. Amazing.
Aman gets low and gains speed, then does turns and figure eights.
I wait for him to start flipping and somersaulting,
but he just slows down and grabs my hand.
We skate that way for a while, then exit the rink to eat nachos.
“Aman. How did you learn all that? You’re so, so good.”
He grins at me and shrugs. “I came here and practiced a lot.
My pops never wanted to put me in classes. Said it was too soft.”
And now his smile is a little sad.
And I think about all the things we could be
if we were never told our bodies were not built for them.

After Skating

When Aman walks me to the train,
he immediately pulls me to him.
We never kiss so publicly but with his lips on mine
I realize I want the same thing.
And I know that it’s stupid,
too easy to run into someone from the block,
or one of Mami’s church friends,
but I just want to keep this moment going.
When he tugs on my hand and pulls me even closer,
I let him make me forget:
Twin’s anger, confirmation class,
the train smell, the people around us
or the “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”
And I know people are probably staring,
probably thinking: “Horny high school kids
can’t keep their hands to themselves.”
But I don’t care because when our lips meet
for those three stops before I get off,
it’s beautiful and real and what I wanted.
We are probably the only thing
worth watching anyways.
Maybe we’re doing our train audience a favor.
Reminding them of first love.

This Body on Fire

Walking home from the train
I can’t help but think
Aman’s made a junkie out of me:
begging for that hit
eyes wide with hunger
blood on fire
licking the flesh
waiting for the refresh
of his mouth.
Fiend begging for an inhale
whatever the price
just so long as
it’s real nice.
Real, real nice.
Blood on ice, ice
waiting for that warmth
that heat that fire.
He’s turned me into a fiend:
waiting for his next word
hanging on his last breath
always waiting for the next, next time.

The Shit & the Fan

I hear Mami’s yelling
through the apartment door
before I even turn the key.
Which isn’t right
because she shouldn’t be home yet,
it isn’t even four o’clock.
I mean, I did miss my stop because
I didn’t want to quit Aman’s kisses.
“Se lo estaba comiendo.
Had her tongue down his throat.
Some little, dirty boy.
I had to get off the train a stop early.”
And I know then.
Mami’s eyes were a fan
and my make-out session on the train
was the shit hitting it.
Lucky me, she’s yelling from her bedroom
and I let myself into the one I share with Twin,
click the door shut, and slide down to put my head
between my legs.
I don’t know how much time has passed
before Twin pushes open the door,
and even through the wall of his silence
he understands something is wrong.
He crouches next to me
but I can’t warn him of the storm
that’s coming.
I can’t even be grateful
he’s speaking to me again.
I try to make all the big
of me small, small, small.

Miracles

My parents are still yelling in the bedroom,
and because I never yell back at them
I don’t scream at my father
when he calls me a cuero.
I don’t yell how the whole block whispers
when I walk down the street
about all the women
who made a cuero out of him.
But men are never called cueros.
I don’t yell anything
because for the first time in a long time
I’m praying for a miracle.
Pinching myself and hoping
this is all one bad dream.
Trying to unhear
my mother turn my kissing ugly,
my father call me the names
all the kids have called me
since I grew breasts.
God, if you’re a thing with ears:
please, please.

Fear

“Xio, what did you do now?”
I don’t look at Twin.
Because if I look at him
I’ll cry. And if I cry he’ll cry.
And if he cries he’ll get yelled at
by Papi for crying.
He pushes up to standing
then kneels in front of me again
like his body doesn’t know what to do.
“Xio?”
And I want to kick the fear in his voice.
“Xio, do they know you’re home yet?
Maybe you can sneak out through
the fire escape? I won’t tell. I’ll—”
But Mami’s chancletas beat
against the floorboards
and Twin and I both know.
He pushes to his feet.
And I see his hands are balled up
into fists he’ll never use.
When the footsteps stop outside our door
I stand, brace my shoulders.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Twin.
Go back to your homework.
Or your flirting or whatever.”
I didn’t do anything at all.

Ants

I Am No Ant

My
mother
yanks
my
hair,
pulling
my
face
up
from
the
tiles,
constructing
a
church
arch
of
my
spine
until
Mary’s
face
is
an
inch
from
mine;
I
am
no
ant.
Only
sharply
torn.
Something
broken.
In
my
mother’s
hand.

Diplomas

“This is why
you want to go
away for college
so you can
open your legs
for any boy
with a big
enough smile.
You think I came
to this country for this?
So you can carry
a diploma
in your belly
but never
a degree?
Tu no vas a ser
un maldito cuero.”

Cuero

“Cuero,” she calls me to my face.
The Dominican word for ho.
This is what a cuero looks like:
A regular girl. Pocket-less jeans
that draw grown men’s eyes. Long hair.
A nose ring. A lip ring. A tongue
ring. Extra earrings. Any ring
but a diamond one on her left hand.
Skirts. Shorts. Tank tops. Spaghetti
straps. A cuero lets the world know
she is hot. She can feel the sun.
A spectacular girl. With too much
ass. Too much lip. Too much sass.
Hips that look like water waiting
to be spilled into the hands
of thirsty boys. A plain girl.
With nothing llamativo—nothing
that calls attention. A forgotten girl.
One who parts her hair down the middle.
Who doesn’t have cleavage. Whose mouth
doesn’t look like it is forever waiting.
Un maldito cuero. I am a cuero, and they’re right.
I hope they’re right. I am. I am. I AM.
I’ll be anything that makes sense
of this panic. I’ll loosen myself from this painful flesh.
See, a cuero is any skin. A cuero
is just a covering. A cuero is a loose thing.
Tied down by no one. Fluttering
and waving in the wind. Flying. Flying. Gone.

Mami Says,

“There be no clean in men’s hands.
Even when the dirt has been scrubbed
from beneath nails, when the soap scent
from them suspends
in the air—there be sins there.
Their washed hands know how to make a dishrag
of your spine, wring your neck.
Don’t look for pristine handling
when men use your tears for Pine-Sol;
they’ll mop the floor with your pride.
There be no clean there, girl.
Their fingers were made to scratch dirt,
to find it in the best of things.
Make your heart a Brillo pad,
brittle and steel—don’t be no damn sponge.
Their fingers don’t know to squeeze nicely.
Nightly, if you imagine men’s kisses, soft touches, a caress,
remember Adam was made from clay that stains the hand,
remember that Eve was easily tempted.”

Repetition

Mami’s hard hands
make me dizzy and nauseous.
Mami prays and prays
while my knees bite into grains of rice.
Mami repeats herself
while her statue of the Virgin watches.
The whole house witnesses
as I pray this steep, steep price.

Things You Think While You’re Kneeling on Rice That Have Nothing to Do with Repentance:

I once watched my father peel an orange
without once removing the knife from the fruit.
He just turned and turned and turned it like a globe
being skinned. The orange peel becoming a curl,
the inside exposed and bleeding. How easily he separated
everything that protected the fruit and then passed the bowl
to my mother, dropping that skin to the floor
while the inside burst between her teeth.

Another Thing You Think While You’re Kneeling on Rice That Has Nothing to Do with Repentance:

My mother has never had soft hands.
Even when I was a child, they were rough
from pushing wooden mops and scrubbing tiles.
But when I was little I didn’t mind.
We would walk down the street
and I would rub her calluses.
She would smile and say
I was her premio for hard work,
I was her premio for patience.
And I loved being her reward.
The golden trophy of her life.
I just don’t know when I got too big
for the appointed pedestal.

The Last Thing You Think While You’re Kneeling on Rice That Has Nothing to Do with Repentance:

How you will have deep grain-sized indents on your knees.
How lucky you are your jeans protect the skin from breaking.
How you will be walking slow to school.
How kneeling on pews was never as bad as this.
How neither your father nor brother say anything.
How you feel cold but blood has rushed to your face.
How your fists are clenched but they have nothing to hit.
How the stinging pain shoots up your thighs.
How you’ve never gritted your teeth this tight.
How it hurts less if you force yourself still, still, still.
How pointless these thoughts are. Any of them.
How kissing should never hurt so much.

Leaving

Twin presses a bag
of frozen mixed vegetables
against my knees
and another against my cheek.
“You’re lucky, you know.
She’s growing old.
She didn’t make you kneel very long.”
And with the stings
still fresh on my skin
I’m not in a place to nod.
But I know it’s true.
“Xio. Just don’t get in trouble
until we can leave.
Soon we can leave for college.”
I’ve never heard Twin sound so desperate,
never thought he dreamed of leaving
just like me.
I try not to be resentful he skipped a grade
and will escape sooner.
I try not to be upset at his soft touch.
I elbow him away,
afraid of how my hands
want to hurt everything around me.

What Do You Need from Me?

Is such a simple question.
But when Caridad texts Twin
the message to show to me,
I look at him and hand the phone back.
I’m not mad that he told her.
I know they’re both just worried.
But all I need is to give in to
what I wouldn’t let myself do in front of Mami:
I curl into a ball and weep.

Consequences

My mother drops the word no
like a hundred grains of rice.
I will kneel in these, too.
No cell phone.
No lunch money.
No afternoons off from church.
No boys.
No texting.
No hanging out after school.
No freedom.
No time to myself.
No getting out of confession
with Father Sean this Sunday.

Late That Night

The only person I want
to talk to is Aman.
And although Twin offers
to let me use his phone,
I don’t know what I’d say.
That we had a great day,
and that it all fell apart.
That my heart hurts more than my knees.
That we can’t be together anymore.
That I would take that beating
again to be with him?
Maybe, there are no words to say.
I just want to be held.

Friday, November 9

In Front of My Locker

I’m so out of it the next morning
as I put my things away in my locker
that I don’t notice the group of guys
circling near until one bumps me,
both his hands palming and squeezing my ass.
And I can tell by how his boys laugh,
how he smirks while saying “oops,”
that this was not an accident.
I scan the hall.
Other kids have slowed down.
Some girls whisper behind their hands.
The group of boys laugh, begin walking away.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Aman
slowing to a standstill. His smile fading.
For the first time since I can remember I wait.
I can’t fight today. Everything inside me feels beaten.
And maybe I won’t have to.
Aman is here. He’ll do something about it.
Of course, as a boy who cares about me,
he’s not going to let someone touch me
and make me feel so damn small inside.
Of course, as someone who I’ve talked to
about how weird it feels to be stared at
and touched like public property,
he’ll know how much this bothers me.
But Aman doesn’t move.
All the things I needed to tell him about last night,
all the things that have changed since we last kissed on the train
evaporate in the heat of my anger.
I feel my knees throbbing,
the rice bruises pressing into the fabric of my sweats.
And I think about how Aman is the reason
I was punished in the first place.
He’s not going to throw a punch.
He’s not going to curse or throw a fit.
He’s not going to do a damn thing.
Because no one will ever take care of me but me.
Pushing away from my locker,
I face the dude who groped me,
push him hard in the back.
He stumbles but before he can react
I look him dead in the eye:
“If you ever touch me again I’ll put my nails
through every pimple on your fucking face.”
I push my locker closed and grill Aman before walking away.
“That goes for you, too. Thanks for nothing.”

DMU Timestamp: November 02, 2023 12:54