The Poet X(10)

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