The Poet X(2)
You sure ain’t an easy one.
Mami Works
Cleaning an office building in Queens.
Rides two trains in the early morning
so she can arrive at the office by eight.
She works at sweeping, and mopping,
emptying trash bins, and being invisible.
Her hands never stop moving, she says.
Her fingers rubbing the material of plastic gloves like the pages of her well-worn Bible.
Mami rides the train in the afternoon, another hour and some change to get to Harlem.
She says she spends her time reading verses, getting ready for the evening Mass,
and I know she ain’t lying, but if it were me I’d prop my head against the metal train wall, hold my purse tight in my lap, close my eyes against the rocking, and try my best to dream.
Tuesday, August 28
Confirmation Class
Mami has wanted me to take the sacrament
of confirmation for three years now.
The first year, in eighth grade, the class got full before we could sign up, and even with all her heavenly pull Mami couldn’t get a spot for Twin and me.
Father Sean told her it’d be fine if we waited.
Last year, Caridad, my best friend, extended her trip in D.R.
right when we were supposed to begin the classes, so I asked if I could wait another year.
Mami didn’t like it, but since she’s friends with Caridad’s mother Twin went ahead and did the class without me.
This year, Mami has filled out the forms,
signed me up, and marched me to church
before I can tell her that Jesus feels like a friend I’ve had my whole childhood
who has suddenly become brand-new;
who invites himself over too often, who texts me too much.
A friend I just don’t think I need anymore.
(I know, I know . . . even writing that is blasphemous.) But I don’t know how to tell Mami that this year, it’s not about feeling unready,
it’s about knowing that this doubt has already been confirmed.
God
It’s not any one thing
that makes me wonder about the capital G.O.D.
About a holy trinity
that don’t include the mother.
It’s all the things.
Just seems as I got older
I began to really see the way that church treats a girl like me differently.
Sometimes it feels all I’m worth is under my skirt and not between my ears.
Sometimes I feel that turning the other cheek could get someone like my brother killed.
Sometimes I feel my life would be easier if I didn’t feel like such a debt to a God
that don’t really seem
to be out here checking for me.
“Mami,” I Say to Her on the Walk Home
The words sit in my belly, and I use my nerves
like a pulley to lift them out of my mouth.
“Mami, what if I don’t do confirmation?
What if I waited a bit for—”
But she cuts me off, her index finger a hard exclamation point in front of my face.
“Mira, muchacha,”
she starts, “I will
feed and clothe no heathens.”
She tells me I owe it to God and myself to devote.
She tells me this country is too soft and gives kids too many choices.
She tells me if I don’t confirm here she will send me to D.R., where the priests and nuns know how to elicit true piety.
I look at her scarred knuckles.
I know exactly how she was taught faith.
When You’re Born to Old Parents
Who’d given up hope for children and then are suddenly gifted with twins, you will be hailed a miracle.
An answered prayer.
A symbol of God’s love.
The neighbors will make the sign of the cross when they see you,
thankful you were not a tumor in your mother’s belly like the whole barrio feared.
When You’re Born to Old Parents, Continued
Your father will never touch rum again.
He will stop hanging out at the bodega where the old men go to flirt.
He will no longer play music
that inspires swishing or thrusting.
You will not grow up listening
to the slow pull of an accordion or rake of the güira.
Your father will become “un hombre serio.”
Merengue might be your people’s music but Papi will reject anything that might sing him toward temptation.
When You’re Born to Old Parents, Continued Again
Your mother will engrave
your name on a bracelet,
the words Mi Hija on the other side.
This will be your favorite gift.
This will become a despised shackle.
Your mother will take to church like a dove thrust into the sky.
She was faithful before, but now she will go to Mass every single day.
You will be forced to go with her until your knees learn the splinters of pews, the mustiness of incense,
the way a priest’s robe tries to shush silent all the echoing doubts
ringing in your heart.