The Poet X Read online

  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

  Aman and I exchanged numbers to talk about lab work

  but when I leave Mass I’m surprised to see

  he’s messaged me.

  A: So what did you think of the Kendrick?

  And because Mami is angry-whispering

  at me for sitting out the sacrament again

  (I’ll do another bid of Mass all week if I have to),

  I cage my squeal behind my teeth.

  I type a quick response:

  X: It was cool. We should listen to something else next time.

  And his response is almost immediate:

  A: Word.

  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.”

  An
d 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 actua
lly 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.