The Poet X(15)

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 maybe the 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?