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

Author: Elizabeth Acevedo

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

Contents

Birthdays
The Good
The Bad
The Ugly
Let Me Explain
If Your Hand Causes You to Sin
Verses
Burn
Where There Is Smoke
Things You Think About in the Split Second Your Notebook Is Burning
Other Things You Think About in the Split Second Your Notebook Is Burning
My Mother Tries to Grab Me
Returning
On the Walk to the Train
The Ride
No Turning Back
Taking Care
In Aman’s Arms
And I Also Know
Tangled
The Next Move
There Are Words
Facing It
“You Don’t Have to Do Anything You Don’t Want to Do.”
What I Say to Ms. Galiano After She Passes Me a Kleenex
Going Home
Aman, Twin, and Caridad
Divine Intervention
Homecoming
My Mother and I
Stronger
Slam Prep
Ms. Galiano Explains the Five Rules of Slam:
Xiomara’s Secret Rules of Slam:
The Poetry Club’s Real Rules of Slam:
Poetic Justice
The Afternoon of the Slam
At the New York Citywide Slam
Celebrate with Me
Assignment 5—First and Final Draft

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Tuesday, January 8

Birthdays

On our birthday Twin and I exchange gifts in the morning
right before we leave for school.
I got him an X-Men comic, issue 17.
Although it’s not his usual anime,
Twin tears up when he sees it.
Iceman, the main character in it,
is a super-dope gay mutant.
I hug him awkwardly, and before he pulls away:
“I don’t know if I told you.
But I’m on your side. Always.”
Twin gives me a tight hug
and hands me a wrapped package.
I break open the tape and see the leather cover.
It’s another notebook, so similar to my first.
“Ran out of gift ideas?” I tease.
He shakes his head and nods at my old notebook,
fat and falling apart on the kitchen table.
“No, and your old one is so full I know you haven’t either.”
We pack up and walk arm in arm to the train.
Today will be a good day.

The Good

Caridad has left me five voice mails singing “Happy Birthday.”
They’re ridiculous and her voice is horrible,
but I laugh every time. I’m sure she’s trying to get up
to sixteen by the end of the day.
When I go put away my bio textbook before lunch,
an envelope flutters to the ground.
Inside I find a printed-out receipt for two admission tickets
to an apple farm just north of the Bronx.
Only one person at this school knows
how much I love apples. Aman.
A laugh uncurls in my throat and stretches its way to my lips.
By the time poetry club comes around,
I’m walking on air before Stephan pulls me into the classroom,
Chris takes off his fitted and croons “Happy Birthday”—
the Stevie Wonder version.
Isabelle hands me a cupcake.
Ms. Galiano gives me a wink.
I think I will remember this birthday for the rest of my life.

The Bad

When we start going around the room
to read our poems I reach into my bag.
I find the new journal Twin gave me,
but after searching and searching, I realize
I must have left my old one on the kitchen table.
For a moment I feel so anxious:
all those poems I wrote over break,
and I don’t even have one to share.
But I try from memory;
one of my favorites
rolls off my tongue
as if I planned it that way.
It feels so good to do a new poem.
And so good to listen
to Chris, Stephan, and Isabelle.
And when I finally look at the clock
I realize I’m running late to church.
At some point Mami will find out
I haven’t been going to confirmation classes.
Probably when the class is confirmed
and I don’t have an excuse for poetry club anymore.
But for now, I’m going to keep frontin’.
I just need to get to church before she’s waiting outside.
I grab my bag in a hurry,
leave with a quick wave, not my usual good-bye,
and zip my North Face up tight.
I grab my phone to shoot Caridad a text
and see I have two missed calls.
My mother’s voice mail
spears ice into my bones:
“Te estoy esperando en casa.”
Click.

The Ugly

I’m breathing hard by the time I get home.
I ran from the train and my face is flushed.
I glance at the kitchen table before hurrying
to my room—my notebook isn’t there.
Mami is sitting on the edge of my bed
with my journal cradled between her hands.
When she looks at me,
I feel blood rush from my cheeks.
I hear a baseball game in the living room,
but I know neither Papi nor Twin can save me.
My hands pulse to grab the book from her
but I don’t move from the doorway.
She speaks softly: “You think I don’t know
enough English to figure out you talk about boys
and church and me? To know all these terrible things you think?”
My mother has always seemed like a big woman
even though she’s so much smaller than I am.
This moment when she swells up and stands
I shrink in the eyes of her wrath.
“These thoughts you have, that you would write them,
for the people to read . . . without feeling guilt. Shame.
What kind of daughter of mine are you?”
She seems lost. As if I’ve yanked an anchor
from the only thing that’s kept her afloat.
She grabs the book in one hand
and it’s then that I notice the box of matches.
The box that’s always on the stove.
The one that’s sitting on my bed.
I don’t know what an asthma attack feels like.
But it has to be like this:
like claws reaching into your chest
and snatching sharply every bit of air—leaving you breathless
and wounded before you know what’s happened—
she’s lit the match.

Let Me Explain

I tell her.
That no one sees the words.
That they’re just my personal thoughts.
That it helps for me to write them down.
That they’re private.
That she wasn’t supposed to ever read my poems.
That I’m sorry.
That I’m sorry.
That I’m sorry.
And I’m digging my fingers into the doorframe.
It’s the only thing holding me up,
holding me
back.
My anger wants to become a creature
with teeth and nails but I keep it collared
because this is my mother. And I am sorry.
That she found it, that I wrote it, that I ever thought
my thoughts were mine.
She holds the lit match up
to a corner of my
notebook.
“Get a trash can, Xiomara.
I don’t want ashes on my floor.”

If Your Hand Causes You to Sin

“If your hand causes you to sin . . .
If your eye causes you to sin . . .
If this notebook, this writing, causes you to sin . . .”
The smell of burning leather propels me.
I push from the doorway
and reach for her hand.
Hundreds of poems, I think.
Years and years of writing.
She turns before I can get my hand on the notebook,
shoves her elbow hard into my chest.
Recites the words loud again and again.
“If your hand causes you to sin . . .
If your eye causes you to sin . . .
If this notebook, this writing, causes you to sin . . .”
And for the first time in my life
I understand the word desperate.
How it’s a pointed hunger in the belly.
Please. Please. Please.
She holds me off with the lit match,
but I make another grab
and the smoking book falls to the floor.
We both reach for it
and just as my fingers grace the cover,
feel the etched woman on the leather,
my mother slaps me back hard onto my ass.
The Christmas bracelet rattles to the floor,
but as I breathe near the door, my cheek stinging,
all I can do is watch the pages burn.
And as she recites Scripture
words tumble out of my mouth too,
all of the poems and stanzas I’ve memorized spill out,
getting louder and louder, all out of order,
until I’m yelling at the top of my lungs,
heaving the words like weapons from my chest;
they’re the only thing I can fight back with.

Verses

Burn

Mami stares at me like I’m speaking in tongues
and continues praying.
We’re wild women, flinging verses at each other
like grenades in a battlefield, a cacophony of violent poems—
and then we’re both gasping, wordless.
Tears roll down our cheeks,
but mine aren’t from the smoke.
I cough on my own tongue.
I’ve never mourned something dying
before this moment.
I have no more poems. My mind blanks.
A roar tears from my mouth.
“Burn it! Burn it.
This is where the poems are,” I say,
thumping a fist against my chest.
“Will you burn me? Will you burn me, too?
You would burn me, wouldn’t you, if you could?”

Where There Is Smoke

I’m not sure when Papi and Twin tuned in
but I feel Twin rush past me;
he reaches for the notebook
but Mami hisses at him to step back
and stomps on the smoking pages.
Papi is in the room.
He speaks softly to my mother,
saying her name over and over,
“Altagracia, Altagracia.”
When he reaches for the book,
she hisses at him too,
but he is soft with her,
approaching a frothing pit bull,
he bends and grabs the book by a corner and tugs.
When she lets go, he knocks it against the wall,
trying to put out the burning leather,
yells at Twin to get the fire extinguisher.
Can a scent tattoo itself onto your memory?
That’s a mixed metaphor, isn’t it?
My notebook is smoldering,
my heart feels like it’s been burned crisp,
and all I can think about are mixed metaphors.

Things You Think About in the Split Second Your Notebook Is Burning

If I were on fire
who could I count on
to water me down?
If I were a pile of ashes
who could I count on
to gather me in a pretty urn?
If I were nothing but dust
would anyone chase the wind
trying to piece me back together?

Other Things You Think About in the Split Second Your Notebook Is Burning

I will never
write a single
poem
ever again.
I will never
let anyone
see my full heart
and destroy it.

My Mother Tries to Grab Me

Papi snatches the extinguisher from Twin
and puts out the small fire.
My mother has been standing behind the blaze,
but as the puff of dry chemicals rises between us
my knees know where she will lead me
the moment the air clears.
I scramble backward into the hallway,
push up to my feet
and away from her hands.
I stand up to my full height.
And I’m glad I’m still
wearing my coat and backpack,
because I need to leave.
I rush to the door,
turn to see Twin pulling my mother back.
She has her arm raised: a machete
ready to cut me down.
I take the stairs two at a time.
And when I am finally outside
I breathe in—
I have nowhere to go
and nothing left.

Returning

Twin begins texting me immediately.
But I don’t answer.
When I finally reply to a text
it’s one I received two months ago.
X: Hey Aman. I need to talk.
Can you chill?

On the Walk to the Train

I call Caridad.
And she answers singing “Happy Birthday,”
but cuts herself off early.
“What’s wrong, Xio? Are you crying?”
All I said was “Hey.”
But she knows by my voice
my world is on fire.
I take a breath.
She tells me to come over.
She tells me she’ll meet me.
She asks me what I need.
“Check on Twin.
Make sure he’s okay.
I just need to breathe.
I just need to leave.”
There’s a long pause.
And I can imagine her nodding
through the phone.
“I’m here for you.
You’ll figure it out.”
And that’s enough.

The Ride

The train stops and starts
like an old woman with a bad cough.
But I feel more than jumbled
when I walk on, so a halting train
doesn’t faze me at all.
When I get off on 168th
it’s started snowing softly.
I turn my face up into the wetness.
I pretend this is like a movie
where the sky offers healing.
But it only makes me colder.
I stand there waiting.
Knowing he said he would come.
Believing he will.
A tingle on my neck
is the only clue I have
and then I smell him,
his cologne a cloud
of so many memories
I didn’t even know we’d made.
Aman’s fingers reach
for my hand but he’s silent.
I keep my face open to the sky.
I squeeze his hand in mine.

No Turning Back

Aman asks me questions
but I barely hear any of them.
The only thing I feel
is the warmth of his fingers.
We walk nowhere for a while.
Until I notice: Aman is shivering.
I finally look at him.
Really look at him.
His hair is wet, his eyelashes
have droplets from the snow,
and he is wearing nothing
but a thin hoodie.
I can see his bare ankles below his sweats—
he must have rushed out without putting on socks.
I tug on his hand, and whisper against his cold cheek:
“You’re cold. Let’s get out of the cold.
You live near here, right?”
And although he raises both his perfect eyebrows
there is nothing left to say.

Taking Care

The long way up five flights of stairs
I have all the silence and time to think.
I know that Aman’s father works nights.
That at night Aman listens to music and does homework.
And I almost laugh.
All the time we were together and happy I avoided coming here.
And now that I’m nothing but a hot mess
I push my way into his home.
His couch is soft. Brown and cushiony.
No plastic covering like mine.
I don’t take my coat off. Or my backpack.
I just lean my head back and close my eyes.
I can hear Aman moving around me.
A table leg scrapes against the hardwood floor.
The refrigerator door opens and closes softly.
Then music playing.
But not J. Cole like I expected.
Not hip-hop at all.
Instead, it’s bass strings and soft steel drums.
Soca, I think, but slow and soothing.
When Aman tugs on my boots, I finally open my eyes.
And he is bending over my feet.
Staring at my mismatched socks.
Then he’s sitting beside me.
And I finally begin to feel warm.
He doesn’t ask what happened.
But the question floats like a blimp across the arch of his brows.
And so, I tell him all of my poems,
my words, my thoughts, the only place
I have ever been my whole self,
are a pile of ashes.
And smoke must still be lodged in my chest,
because it hurts so much when I’m done speaking.
Aman doesn’t say a word;
he just pulls me to him.

In Aman’s Arms

And I Also Know

We have to stop.
Because now we’re lying on the couch
and he’s on top of me.
And his kisses feel so good,
everything feels so good.
But I also feel him pressed against me.
The part of him that’s hard.
That’s still an unanswered question
I don’t have a response for.
And when his hand brushes my thigh
and then moves up—
I know why island people cliff dive.
Why they jump to feel free, to fly,
and how they must panic for a moment
when the ocean rushes toward them.
I stop his hand. I pull my face from his kiss.
He is breathing hard. He is still kissing me hard.
He is still bumping up against me. Hard.
“We have to stop.”

Tangled

Sometimes I wear these really long three-strand necklaces.
And I love how they look. Like a spiderweb of fake gold.
But they’re the worst to put away.
The next time I try to wear them they’re a tangled knot.
No beginning, no end, just snag after snag.
That’s how I feel the moment I ask Aman to back up.
Like a big tangle. I feel: guilty, because he looks so
frustrated. I feel: hot and wanting. I feel: like crying
because everything is so mixed up. And I feel
the panic slowly die, because I can think.
I just need a moment, things to slow down,
so I can undo the knots inside me.

The Next Move

I wait for him to call me all the names
I know girls get called in this moment.
I sit up and hold my bra against my chest
with no memory of how I became undone.
When his fingers brush against my spine
my whole body stiffens. Waiting.
But he only pulls my straps up and
snaps my bra closed. Hands me my T-shirt.
We are silent as I get dressed.
I wait for him to hand me my boots.
To point me toward the door.
I know this is how it works. You put out or you get out.
So I am surprised when instead of my boots
Aman hands me his own T-shirt,
and when I look at him confused
he takes it back and uses the sleeve
to wipe the tears sprinting down my cheek.

There Are Words

That need to be said
but we don’t say any of them.
We watch YouTube highlights of the Winter Games.
I help Aman fry eggs and sweet plantains.
I sip a Malta. Aman drinks a bottle
of his father’s Carib beer.
Somewhere in New York City it is late.
But in Aman’s living room time has stopped.
I’m dozing off, with the lights dark
and the buzz of the computer.
With Aman’s soft breathing in my ear,
I think of all the firsts I’ve given to this day,
and all the ones I chose to keep.
And this is a better thought
than the one that wants to break through
because in the back of my head I know
today I’ve made decisions
I will never be able to undo.

Wednesday, January 9

Facing It

When I walk into first-period English
Ms. Galiano takes one look at me
and stands up from her desk, gestures me outside.
Aman offered me one of his T-shirts,
but my boobs pulled it too tight across my chest
and so I’m wearing the same outfit as yesterday.
And by the way she looks at me
I know that Ms. Galiano knows it.
But she doesn’t mention clothes;
she says she called my house.
That when I ran out of poetry club she got concerned,
got the number from the school directory,
that she spoke to my father, who sounded frantic,
that my whole family was wondering where I was.
She asks me if I’ve called them.
She asks me what’s going on.
And my chest is heaving.
Because I don’t know what to tell her.
She puts a soft hand on my arm
and I look into the face of a woman
not much older than me,
a woman with a Spanish last name,
who loves books and poetry,
who I notice for the first time is pretty,
who has a soft voice and called my house
because she was worried
and the words are out before I know it:
confirmation, lying about poetry, the rice,
the book burning, leaving the house, sleeping at Aman’s.
My face burns hot, and the words are too fast,
and I wonder again and again why I’m saying them,
and if people are looking; but I can’t seem to stop
all the words that I’ve held clenched tight,
and then I say words I’ve never even known I’ve thought:
“I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.”
And I’m saying them against Ms. Galiano’s small frame,
her slim arms around me as she hugs me tight.
As she tells me over and over:
“Just breathe. Just breathe.
It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.”

“You Don’t Have to Do Anything You Don’t Want to Do.”

And so I take a breath
I didn’t realize I needed to take.
When has anyone ever said those words to me?
Maybe only Aman, who’s never forced me
to smoke, or kiss, or anything.
But everyone else just wants me to do:
Mami wants me to be her proper young lady.
Papi wants me to be ignorable and silent.
Twin and Caridad want me to be good so I don’t attract
attention.
God just wants me to behave so I can earn being alive.
And what about me? What about Xiomara?
When has anyone ever told me
I had the right to stop it all
without my knuckles, or my anger,
with just some simple words.
“But you do have to talk to your mom.
Really talk to her. And you do need to figure out
how to make a relationship with her work.”

What I Say to Ms. Galiano After She Passes Me a Kleenex

Okay.

Going Home

Is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
All day I’ve been unfocused. Unsure of what I need to do.
Of how to do it. Hands trembling at the thought
of what will happen when I walk through the front door.
Because my mother’s ears are soundproof when it comes to me.
The only one she ever listens to is God.
During lunch, Isabelle doesn’t ask what happened,
she just hands me her bag of Doritos.
After bio, Aman rubs my shaking hands as we walk out the door.
His gentle hold warms me up.
During last period, Ms. Galiano comes to my math classroom
and gives me a note with her personal cell number in case I
need to talk to her later.
When I step out of school, Aman’s hand in mine,
both Caridad and Twin are standing at the front gate.
And although none of them can face Mami for me,
I know I’m not alone. And I finally know who might help.

Aman, Twin, and Caridad

I introduce Aman to Twin and Caridad
before we all walk to the train station.
I want to ask Twin what happened
after I left last night.
But I don’t want to know.
I can tell by how tired he looks
that whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
No one says anything for a long time.
Caridad squeezes my hand and tells me to call her.
Aman kisses my forehead and tells me “we gon’ be all right.”
When Twin catches me looking at him
he gives me a soft smile.
And then his eyes begin to water.
On that rocking train, we hug and rock, too.

Divine Intervention

I make a stop
before going home.
Because I know
assistance comes
in mysterious ways
and I’m going to need
all the help I can get.

Homecoming

At the apartment door, I slide the key in,
but don’t unlock.
I can hear both people behind me breathing.
Mami might not be home yet.
I still have time to gather my thoughts.
To get my life together.
But when I open the door
she is there. Standing in the kitchen,
wringing a dishrag. Her eyes are red.
And she looks small, so small.
Twin gives my shoulder a squeeze
and moves behind me.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders.
“Mami, we need to talk.
And I think we need help to do it.”
I step aside and let Father Sean cram into the kitchen.
He reaches out a hand to my mother: “Altagracia.”
And this woman I’ve feared,
this woman who has been both mother and monster,
the biggest sun in my sky—
bright, blinding, burning me to the wick—
she hunches her shoulders and begins to sob.
Silent, silent crying that shakes her whole body.
And I am stuck, and still.
Before I go to her.

My Mother and I

Might never be friends.
Will never shop for a prom dress together
and paint designs on each other’s nails.
My mother and I
might never learn
how to give and accept
an apology from the other.
We might be too much
the same mirror.
But our arms can do
what our words can’t just now.
Our arms can reach.
Can hug tight.
Can teach us
to remember each other.
That love can be a band:
tears if you pull it too hard,
but also flexible enough
to stretch around the most chaotic mass.
My mother does not say she is sorry.
That she loves me.
And I hope one day for the words,
but for now, her strong pat on my back,
her hand through my hair,
this small moment of soft.
Is enough.

Thursday, January 24

Stronger

In bio we learn about erosion.
About how over time a small stream of water
falling down the same rock face for centuries
can break an entire mountain apart
little bit by little bit.
For the next couple of weeks,
my mother and I work to break down
some of the things that have built up between us.
We meet with Father Sean once a week
and talk. Sometimes about each other.
Sometimes just about our days.
My mother starts teaching Communion classes,
and she seems happier than I’ve ever seen her.
The little kids make her smile, she gets excited
over teaching certain passages, and I remember
it used to be like that with me once.
It’s a sweet memory made sweeter when
at the third session with Father Sean,
she gives me my name bracelet back,
the gold melded where it’d been broken, but still whole.
Sometimes Twin and Papi come to the sessions
with Father Sean. Twin wiggles uncomfortably
in his chair. I know there’s a lot he doesn’t say.
But I hope, one day, he will be able to say it.
Papi, surprisingly, loves to talk. And once he gets going
he makes all of us laugh, and when we are talking about him
and the things he’s done that have hurt us, he doesn’t leave.
He listens.
One day, as we’re all leaving Father Sean turns to me
and I brace myself, afraid he is going to ask about confirmation,
and that’s still a can of worms I ain’t fishing with,
but instead he says:
“Xavier told us you’re performing in a poetry competition.
Your very own boxing ring, eh?
I assume we’re all invited?”

Slam Prep

Ms. Galiano wouldn’t let me back out.
Even with everything going on,
she said I needed to give it a chance.
So, I practiced in front of my mirror
and at poetry club.
Although I lost so many poems,
and I feel a pang every time I think about them burning,
I’m also so proud of all I remember.
I’m trying to convince myself rewriting means
the words really mattered in the first place.
I need one really strong poem and although I hate
the idea of being judged and scored . . .
I love the idea of people listening.
(And, of course, winning.)
But, the thing is, all my poems are personal.
Some of the other slammers,
I know they write about politics and school.
But my poems? They’re about me.
About Twin and Papi, about Aman.
About Mami.
How can I say things like that in front of strangers?
In house stays in house, right?
“Wrong,” Ms. Galiano tells me.
She tells me words give people permission
to be their fullest self. And aren’t these the poems
I’ve most needed to hear?

Ms. Galiano Explains the Five Rules of Slam:

1. All poems must be under three minutes

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2. All work must be the poet’s original work

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3. You are not allowed to use props or costumes

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4. You are not allowed to perform with someone onstage

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5. You are not allowed to use a musical instrument

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Xiomara’s Secret Rules of Slam:

1. Do not faint onstage

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2. Do not forget your poem onstage

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3. Do not stumble over words or visibly mess up onstage

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4. Do not give a disclaimer or introduction to your poem

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5. Do not walk offstage without finishing the poem

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The Poetry Club’s Real Rules of Slam:

1. Perform with heart

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2. Remember why you wrote the poem

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3. Go in with all your emotions

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4. Tell the audience all of the things

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5. Don’t suck

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Friday, February 1

Poetic Justice

One week before the slam
Twin, Mami, and Papi sit on the couch.
I take a deep breath and try not to fidget.
I open my mouth
and silence.
I can’t do this. I can’t perform
in front of them.
The living room feels too small;
they’re too close to me.
The words shrivel up and hide under my tongue.
Twin gives me an encouraging nod,
but I can tell that even he’s nervous
about how my parents might react.
I close my eyes
and feel the first words of the poem
unwrinkle themselves,
expand in my mouth,
and I let them loose
and the other words just follow.
The room feels too small,
the eyes all on me,
and I take a step back
but continue staring at the wall,
at the family portrait
hanging over Papi’s head.
When I’m done Twin is smiling.
When I’m done Papi claps.
When I’m done Mami cocks her head
and says:
“Use your hand gestures a little less
and next time, en voz alta.
Speak up, Xiomara.”

Friday, February 8

The Afternoon of the Slam

Aman and I go to the smoke park.
I don’t tell him I’m nervous
but he still holds my hand in his,
slips an earbud into my ear,
and plays Nicki Minaj.
When the album is done,
I get up to leave
but he tugs my hand
and pulls me onto his lap.
“I’m going to crush you!”
He smiles at me.
“Never, X. I have a present for you.”
And I see his phone
has gone from
the iTunes app to the Notes app.
I’m stunned when he begins
reading a poem to me.
It’s short and not very good
but I still blink away tears.
Because after all the poems
I’ve written for him and others
this is the first poem ever written for me.
“I’ll never be as good of a poet as you, Poet X,
and I believe you’re strong enough
to defend yourself and me at the same time,
but I’ll always have your back,
and I’ll always protect your heart.”
And I’ve never heard something
more deserving of a perfect ten.

Friday, February 8

At the New York Citywide Slam

Celebrate with Me

After the slam,
Mami and Papi
invite my friends over
and Ms. Galiano and Father Sean, too.
Mami makes rice and beans
and orders pizza,
a strange mix
but I don’t complain.
Mami and Papi
won’t call Aman
my boyfriend
but they let him sit on the couch.
At one point,
Isabelle starts playing
bachata on her phone
and pulls Caridad to dance with her.
Next to me,
I see Twin tap his feet
and pretend not to look at Stephan.
Aman starts Spotify DJing.
Ms. Galiano and Father Sean
begin a heated convo about Floyd Mayweather,
and then there’s a tap
on my shoulder
and I turn to see Papi,
holding his hand out to me,
reaching for my arm,
asking me to dance.
“I should have taught you
a long time ago.
Dancing is a good way
to tell someone you love them.”
I catch Mami’s eyes in the doorway
of the living room; she smiles at me and says:
“Pa’lante, Xiomara.
Que para atrás ni para coger impulso.”
And she’s absolutely right,
there will be no more backward steps.
And so I smile at them both
and step forward.

Assignment 5—First and Final Draft

Xiomara Batista
Monday, March 4
Ms. Galiano
Explain Your Favorite Quote

“The unfolding of your words gives light;
it gives understanding to the simple.”—Psalm 119:130

I was raised in a home of prayers and silence and although Jesus preaches love, I didn’t always feel loved. The weird thing about the Bible is that almost everything in it is a metaphor. So it seems to me that when the Bible describes church as a place where two or more people discuss God, they don’t mean just the cathedral-like churches. I don’t know what, who, or where God is. But if everything is a metaphor, I think he or she is a comparison to us. I think we are all like or as God.

I think when we get together and talk about ourselves, about being human, about what hurts us, we’re also talking about God. So that’s also church, right? (I know this might seem blasphemous, but my priest tells me it’s OKAY to ask questions . . . even if they seem bizarre.) And so, I love this quote because even though it’s not about poetry, it IS about poetry. It’s about any of the words that bring us together and how we can form a home in them. I don’t know if I’ll ever be as religious as my mother, as devout as my brother and best friend. I only know that learning to believe in the power of my own words has been the most freeing experience of my life. It has brought me the most light. And isn’t that what a poem is? A lantern glowing in the dark.

DMU Timestamp: November 08, 2023 16:13

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