The Poet X Read online

I definitely don’t fight as much as I used to.

  Not every fight can be fought with gloves, Xiomara.”

  I stand. I tell Father Sean I won’t ask about Eve again.

  I leave church before he asks me something I can’t answer.

  Rough Draft Assignment 2—Last paragraphs of My Biography

  And that’s how Xiomara,

  bare-knuckled, fought the world

  into calling her correctly by her name,

  into not expecting her to be a saint,

  into respecting her as a whole grown-ass woman.

  She knew since she was little,

  the world would not sing her triumphs,

  but she took all of the stereotypes

  and put them in a chokehold

  until they breathed out the truth.

  Xiomara may be remembered

  as a lot of things: a student,

  a miracle, a protective sister,

  a misunderstood daughter,

  but most importantly,

  she should be remembered

  as always working to become

  the warrior she wanted to be.

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

  Xiomara Batista

  Monday, October 15

  Ms. Galiano

  Last Paragraphs of My Biography, Final Draft

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

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

  Hands

  In bio

  Aman’s hand has started

  finding mine inside the desk.

  I hope I don’t sweat

  as his finger fiddles

  across my palm.

  I wonder if he’s nervous

  like me. If he’s frontin’

  like me.

  Pretending I’ve played

  with someone’s hand,

  and done even more.

  And even though

  I’ve dreamt about him before,

  there’s something different

  about touching a guy

  in real life. In the flesh.

  Inside a classroom. More than once.

  His hand lighting a match

  inside my body.

  Fingers

  In bed at night

  my fingers search

  a heat I have no name for.

  Sliding into a center,

  finding a hidden core,

  or stem, or maybethe root.

  I’m learning how to caress

  and breathe at the same time.

  How to be silent

  and feel something grow

  inside me.

  And when it all builds up,

  I sink into my mattress.

  I feel such a release. Such a relief.

  I feel such a shame

  settle like a blanket

  covering me head to toe.

  To make myself feel this way

  is a dirty thing, right?

  Then why does it feel so good?

  Tuesday, October 16

  Talking Church

  “So you go to church a lot, right?”

  Aman asks as we walk to the train.

  And any words I have

  suicide-jump off my tongue.

  Because this is it.

  Either he’s going to think

  I’m a freak of the church

  who’s too holy to do anything,

  or he’s going to think I’m

  a church freak trying to get it on

  with the first boy who tries.

  “X?”

  And I try to focus on that,

  how much I love this new nickname.

  How it’s such a small letter

  but still fits all of me.

  “Xiomara?”

  I finally turn to look at him.

  “Yeah. My moms is big into church

  and I go with her and to confirmation classes.”

  “So your moms is big into the church,

  but you, what are you big into?”

  And I let loose the breath that I was holding.

  And before I know I’m going to say them

  the words have already escaped my mouth.

  “You already know I’m into poetry.”

  And he nods. Looks at me and seems to decide something.

  “So what’s your stage name, Xiomara?”

  And I’m so glad he’s changed the subject.

  That I answer before I think:

  “I’m just a writer . . . but maybe I’d be the Poet X.”

  He smiles. “I think that fits you perfectly.”

  Swoon

  In science we learned

  that thermal conductivity

  is how heat flows through

  some materials better than others.

  But who knew words,

  when said by the right person,

  by a boy who raises your temperature,

  move heat like nothing else?

  Shoot a shock of warmth

  from your curls to your toes?

  Telephone

  Twin doesn’t ask who I’m texting

  so late into the night that the glow

  of my phone is the only light

  in the whole apartment.

  And I don’t offer to tell him

  or to hide my texting

  beneath my blanket.

  I’ve never been superfriendly,

  and Caridad is the only person

  we really talk to, unless I’m working

  on a class project or something.

  But now I have Aman,

  sweet and patient Aman,

  who sends me Drake lyrics

  that he says remind him of me

  and asks me to whisper him poems in return.

  Who never grows tired of my writing

  and always asks for one more.

  Twin doesn’t ask who I’m texting.

  Though I know he’s wondering

  because I’m wondering who he’s been texting, too.

  The reason why he’s smiling more now.

  And giggles in the dark,

  the glow of his phone letting me know

  we both have secrets to keep.

  Over Breakfast

  Twin is singing underneath his breath

  as he pours milk into his cereal.

  I watch him as I sip on a cup of coffee.

  He slices up an apple and gives me half.

  He knows they’re my favorite,

  but I’m surprised he’s being so thoughtful.

  “Twin, you been smiling more lately.

  This person got a name?”

  And my words make the smile

  slip and slide right off his face.

  He shakes his head at me,

  pushes his cereal away.

  He plays with the tablecloth.

  “Is that why you been smiling so much?”

  And to cover my blush,

  I gulp down the last of my coffee.

  “I’m just happy; you know what we should plan?

  Our scary movie date for Halloween. You and me.”<
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  And we both say at the same time:

  “And Caridad.”

  Angry Cat, Happy X

  C: Girl, this angry cat meme reminded me of you.

  X: Smh. Ur dumb. I was just about to text you.

  Scary movie Halloween date?

  C: Duh! How you doing? How’s that boy you feeling?

  X: I’m good . . . He’s fine.

  C: Why “. . .”?

  X: I know you don’t approve.

  C: Xio, I just don’t want you getting in trouble.

  But I like seeing you happy . . . Like this happy cat meme!

  Friday, October 19

  About Being in Like

  The smoke park is empty again.

  And I’m so glad we finally

  have another half day.

  The afternoon stretches before us.

  No Mami to call me. She’s still at work.

  Twin’s genius school runs on a different schedule.

  Caridad never texts during class.

  It’s just me and Aman

  and his hand brushing my cheek

  to insert an earbud.

  “You ever smoked a blunt?”

  I shake my head.

  “Word. Drake is better when you lit.

  But we can listen to him anyways.”

  And so I shut my eyes,

  pressing my shoulder closer to his

  as he settles his iPhone between us,

  as he settles his hand on my thigh.

  Music

  for A

  Placing my head in the crook of your neck

  makes me happyto be alive.

  Eyes closedhands clasped.

  Don’t breatheand maybe

  we will livelike this forever.

  It be gibberishbut everything

  you whispersounds like poetry.

  Imissedyou.

  This was supposed to be a question.

  Not a poemconfessionor whatever it’s become.

  I just wanted to know ifyou would listen

  with meto the soundof our heartbeats.

  Tuesday, October 23

  Ring the Alarm

  The day that becomes THE DAY

  starts real regular. Same schedule,

  and nothing changed ’til last-period bio.

  It’s the first Tuesday

  since “the Eve episode”

  and with thirty minutes left of school

  a fire alarm goes off.

  Mr. Bildner sighs and stops the PowerPoint

  that was showing us how Darwin

  figured out finches.

  Aman squeezes my hand beneath the desk

  and stands. Slings his bag across his shoulders

  (he never puts it in his locker).

  Before I know what I’m saying

  the words skip like small rocks out my mouth:

  “We should go to the park.”

  They sink in silence. He cocks his head.

  “You know Bildner’s going to take attendance

  if this is a false alarm?”

  The class lines up to exit

  and as we scrunch together

  my ass bumps Aman’s front.

  I don’t move away.

  I whisper over my shoulder,

  “We should still go.”

  Aman’s finger pulls on one of my curls.

  “I didn’t know you liked Drake enough

  to get caught cutting.”

  I lean back against him,

  feel his body pressed against mine.

  “Drake isn’t the one that I like.”

  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 confusingto 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.
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  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