The Poet X(22)

Around and Around We Go


The next day shines perfect. I invite Twin to come along, but he only turns his back to me and keeps on pretending to sleep.

He’s still upset about my showing up to his school.

And I’m trying to give him space.

Aman is near the skate rental when I arrive, and all around us kids are walking and laughing.

He holds out a pair of skates and after we’re laced up and have rented a locker we walk awkwardly to the ice.

I take a deep breath at the pang of nostalgia.

So many good memories at Lasker Rink.

I hope to add one more.

I step onto the ice and it all comes back to me.

Aman hasn’t moved and I backward skate,

slowly crooking my finger at him.

I blush immediately. I’m never the one to make the first move.

But he seems to like it and steps onto the ice.

He starts off slow. And we both face forward, skating side by side.

Then it’s like something comes over him.

And I realize he wasn’t lying. He’s. Fucking. Amazing.

Aman gets low and gains speed, then does turns and figure eights.

I wait for him to start flipping and somersaulting, but he just slows down and grabs my hand.

We skate that way for a while, then exit the rink to eat nachos.

“Aman. How did you learn all that? You’re so, so good.”

He grins at me and shrugs. “I came here and practiced a lot.

My pops never wanted to put me in classes. Said it was too soft.”

And now his smile is a little sad.

And I think about all the things we could be if we were never told our bodies were not built for them.





After Skating


When Aman walks me to the train, he immediately pulls me to him.

We never kiss so publicly but with his lips on mine I realize I want the same thing.

And I know that it’s stupid,

too easy to run into someone from the block, or one of Mami’s church friends, but I just want to keep this moment going.

When he tugs on my hand and pulls me even closer, I let him make me forget:

Twin’s anger, confirmation class, the train smell, the people around us or the “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

And I know people are probably staring, probably thinking: “Horny high school kids can’t keep their hands to themselves.”

But I don’t care because when our lips meet for those three stops before I get off, it’s beautiful and real and what I wanted.

We are probably the only thing worth watching anyways.

Maybe we’re doing our train audience a favor.

Reminding them of first love.





This Body on Fire


Walking home from the train I can’t help but think Aman’s made a junkie out of me: begging for that hit eyes wide with hunger blood on fire

licking the flesh

waiting for the refresh of his mouth.

Fiend begging for an inhale whatever the price

just so long as

it’s real nice.

Real, real nice.

Blood on ice, ice

waiting for that warmth that heat that fire.

He’s turned me into a fiend: waiting for his next word hanging on his last breath always waiting for the next, next time.





The Shit & the Fan


I hear Mami’s yelling

through the apartment door before I even turn the key.

Which isn’t right

because she shouldn’t be home yet, it isn’t even four o’clock.

I mean, I did miss my stop because I didn’t want to quit Aman’s kisses.

“Se lo estaba comiendo.

Had her tongue down his throat.

Some little, dirty boy.

I had to get off the train a stop early.”

And I know then.

Mami’s eyes were a fan and my make-out session on the train was the shit hitting it.

Lucky me, she’s yelling from her bedroom and I let myself into the one I share with Twin, click the door shut, and slide down to put my head between my legs.

I don’t know how much time has passed before Twin pushes open the door, and even through the wall of his silence he understands something is wrong.

He crouches next to me but I can’t warn him of the storm that’s coming.

I can’t even be grateful he’s speaking to me again.

I try to make all the big of me small, small, small.





Miracles


My parents are still yelling in the bedroom, and because I never yell back at them I don’t scream at my father when he calls me a cuero.

I don’t yell how the whole block whispers when I walk down the street about all the women

who made a cuero out of him.

But men are never called cueros.

I don’t yell anything

because for the first time in a long time I’m praying for a miracle.

Pinching myself and hoping this is all one bad dream.

Trying to unhear

my mother turn my kissing ugly, my father call me the names all the kids have called me since I grew breasts.

God, if you’re a thing with ears: please, please.





Fear