The Poet X(25)

That we can’t be together anymore.

That I would take that beating again to be with him?

Maybe, there are no words to say.

I just want to be held.





Friday, November 9





In Front of My Locker


I’m so out of it the next morning

as I put my things away in my locker that I don’t notice the group of guys circling near until one bumps me,

both his hands palming and squeezing my ass.

And I can tell by how his boys laugh, how he smirks while saying “oops,”

that this was not an accident.

I scan the hall.

Other kids have slowed down.

Some girls whisper behind their hands.

The group of boys laugh, begin walking away.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Aman slowing to a standstill. His smile fading.

For the first time since I can remember I wait.

I can’t fight today. Everything inside me feels beaten.

And maybe I won’t have to.

Aman is here. He’ll do something about it.

Of course, as a boy who cares about me, he’s not going to let someone touch me and make me feel so damn small inside.

Of course, as someone who I’ve talked to about how weird it feels to be stared at and touched like public property,

he’ll know how much this bothers me.

But Aman doesn’t move.

All the things I needed to tell him about last night, all the things that have changed since we last kissed on the train evaporate in the heat of my anger.

I feel my knees throbbing,

the rice bruises pressing into the fabric of my sweats.

And I think about how Aman is the reason I was punished in the first place.

He’s not going to throw a punch.

He’s not going to curse or throw a fit.

He’s not going to do a damn thing.

Because no one will ever take care of me but me.

Pushing away from my locker,

I face the dude who groped me,

push him hard in the back.

He stumbles but before he can react

I look him dead in the eye:

“If you ever touch me again I’ll put my nails through every pimple on your fucking face.”

I push my locker closed and grill Aman before walking away.

“That goes for you, too. Thanks for nothing.”





Part III


The Voice of One


Crying in the Wilderness





Silent World


All of Friday and the weekend the world I’ve lived in wears masking tape over its mouth.

I wear invisible Beats headphones

that muffle sound.

I don’t hear teachers, or Father Sean,

Twin, or Caridad.

Aman tries to speak to me but even in bio

I pretend my ears are cotton filled.

I speak to no one.

The world is almost peaceful when you stop trying to understand it.





Sunday, November 11





Heavy


After Mass on Sunday,

under Mami’s knowing eyes, I step to Father Sean.

He’s kissing babies and talking to old people, but he gives me his full attention.

I ask to meet him for confession.

And I can’t tell if I imagine it, but his eyes almost seem to get soft.

He glances behind me,

where Mami is standing.

Instead of the confessional, he tells me to meet him in the rectory, the well-lit meeting space behind the church.

And I don’t know how much truth my tongue will stumble through.

I walk through the side door and avoid looking at pictures of the saints.

I’m always avoiding something

and it seems as heavy as any cross.





My Confession


How do you admit a thing like this?

You would think I was pregnant

the way my parents act

like I let them down.

And by my parents, I mean Mami.

Papi mostly huffs around

telling me I better do what Mami says.

And Mami huffs around

saying I better read Proverbs 31 more closely.

And I just want to tell them,

it’s NOT THAT DEEP.

I don’t got an STD, or a baby.

It was just a tongue. In my mouth.

So I’m not quite sure what to tell Father Sean when I meet him in the rectory.

Maybe I don’t remember my Bible right, but I don’t think this is one of the seven sins.

He sits across from me and crosses his ankles.

“Whenever you’re ready we can talk.

I’m guessing you don’t need anonymity and I thought this would be cozier than the confessional. Do you want tea?”

I look at my clasped hands. Because I can’t look him in the face.

“I think I committed lust. And disobeyed my parents . . .

although they never actually said I couldn’t kiss a boy on the train, so I’m not sure if that’s the right sin.”

I wait for Father Sean to speak, but he just stares at the picture of the pope above me.

“Are you actually sorry, Xiomara?”

I wait a moment. Then I shake my head, no. Say: “I’m sorry I got in trouble.