The Poet X(29)

But I don’t have anything to tell her.

If nothing else, my family believes in keeping las cosas de la casa en la casa— what happens in house, stays in house.

So I just shrug.

“What about poetry club?

I keep expecting you to show up.

Your writing is so good.

You wouldn’t even have to read.

Maybe you just come and listen, see how you feel?”

I almost tell her I have a confirmation class, that the times overlap.

But then I remember, Father Sean isn’t expecting me to show up anymore . . .

and well, Mami is. Who would know I’m skipping as long as I’m there when she picks me up?

Plus, I have so much bursting to be said, and I think I’m ready to be listened to.

I swallow back the smile that tries to creep onto my face but tell Ms. Galiano: “I’ll redo the assignment, if I can.

And I’ll see you at the club tomorrow.”





Can’t Tell Me Nothing


I don’t know the last time I looked forward to something.

The afternoons with Aman seem so long ago.

We’re in a new unit now and Mr. Bildner

has changed our lab partners.

I’m with a girl named Marcy who doodles hearts over and over in her notebook.

Sometimes I catch Aman looking at me from across the room.

Long looks that stretch the physical space between us, and although I’m still angry that he didn’t stand up for me a part of me feels like maybe I messed up, too.

But even if I wanted to fix it, there’s really no reason why.

He and I can’t have anything to do with each other.

Looking back, maybe we had a parasitic relationship?

One of us taking and the other only trying to stay afloat.

Maybe it’s better we ended. Because what can I give him?

Nothing but infrequent kisses. Nothing but half-done poems.

Nothing but sneaking around and regret at all my lying.

Nothing. But at least there’s tomorrow. At least there’s poetry.





Tuesday, December 11





Isabelle


“Ain’t you the big-body freshman

all the boys always talking about?”

I look at the only other person

in Ms. Galiano’s room,

a girl in a pink tutu and Jordans who must be some kind of mixed.

Despite my sweaty hands and racing heart I almost laugh.

I don’t know why I thought poetry club would be any different than the rest of the world.

I shrug. “I’m actually a sophomore.”

She cocks her head at me, and pats the seat next to her.

“I’m Isabelle, who woulda thought you was a poet? Dope.”





First Poetry Club Meeting


It’s funny how the smallest moments are like dominoes lining up,

being stacked with the purpose

of knocking you on your ass.

In a good way.

I should be tight over Isabelle’s comment; instead, I like how straight-up she is.

Most people talk about me behind my back, but she says whatever is on her mind.

I don’t want to get excited,

because who knows if I’ll even come back, but it seems Ms. Galiano’s small stack of posters called a cute little mix of people.

We are four in total, a small club, two boys—Chris, who did a poem in my class before handing out flyers, and Stephan, who’s super quiet. Then Isabelle from the Bronx.

Ms. Galiano welcomes me to the club and asks everyone to read a poem

as a way for them

to introduce themselves to me.

Chris and Isabelle have theirs memorized, but Stephan reads from his notebook.

My hands are shaking even before

it’s my turn and I just keep hoping somehow I’ll be skipped.

Stephan’s poetry is filled with the most colorful images.

Each line a fired visual, landing on target.

(I don’t always understand every line but love the pictures being painted behind my eyelids.) Chris Hodges is loud, a mile-a-minute talker, a comment for every poem, everything is “Deep” and “Wow,”

his own poem using words like abyss and effervescent (I think he’s studying for the SAT).

And then there’s Isabelle Pedemonte-Riley.

Her piece rhymes and she sounds

like a straight-up rapper. You can tell she loves Nicki Minaj, too. That girl’s a storyteller writing a world you’re invited to walk into.

I sit wondering how writing can bring such strange strangers into the same room.

And then it’s my turn to read.





Nerves


I open my mouth but can’t push the words out.

It’s not like when I read to Aman.

Although I wanted him to like it, I didn’t feel like I had to impress him.

But right now I’m nervous

and the poem doesn’t feel done yet, or like a poem at all, just a journal entry.

A fist tightens in my stomach

and I take a breath trying to unclench it.

I’ve never imagined an audience for my work.

If anything my poems were meant to be seen and not heard.

The room is so quiet, and I clear my throat— even my pause sounds too loud.