The Poet X Read online

  and when Father Sean places the Eucharist

  onto my tongue I walk away,

  kneel in my pew,

  and spit the wafer into my palm

  when I’m pretending to pray.

  I can feel the hot eyes of the Jesus statue

  watching me hide the wafer beneath the bench,

  where his holy body will now feed the mice.

  Monday, September 17

  The Flyer

  “Calling all poets!”

  The poster is printed

  on regular white computer paper.

  The bare basics:

  Spoken Word Poetry Club

  Calling all poets, rappers, and writers.

  Tuesdays. After school.

  See Ms. Galiano in room 302 for details.

  It’s layered behind other more colorful

  and bigger-lettered announcements

  but it still makes me stop

  halfway down the staircase,

  as kids late to class

  try their best to accidentally

  make me topple down the stairs.

  But I’m rooted to the spot,

  a new awareness buzzing over the noise.

  This poster feels personal,

  like an engraved invitation

  mailed directly to me.

  After the Buzz Dies Down

  I crumple the flyer in my backpack.

  Balled and zipped up tight.

  Tuesdays I have confirmation class.

  Not a chance Mami’s gonna let me out of that.

  Not a chance I want anyone hearing my work.

  Something in my chest flutters like a bird

  whose wings are being gripped still

  by the firmest fingers.

  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,
r />   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