The Poet X Page 6
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