The Poet X(30)
Isabelle speaks up.
“You got this, girl. Just let us hear every word.”
Ms. Galiano nods,
and Stephan gives a soft “mhmm.”
And so I grip my notebook tight and launch into the piece.
When I’m Done
Isabelle snaps, and Ms. Galiano smiles, and of course, Chris has a comment about my poem’s complex narrative structure, or something like that.
I can’t remember
the last time people were silent while I spoke, actually listening.
Not since Aman.
But it’s nice to know I don’t need him in order to feel listened to.
My little words
feel important, for just a moment.
This is a feeling I could get addicted to.
Compliments
“You did a great job today, Xiomara.
I know it isn’t always easy
to put yourself out there like that,” Ms. Galiano says.
And although I’m used to compliments they’re rarely ever about my thoughts, so I can’t stop the smile that springs onto my face.
I make sure to swallow it before it blooms too big.
But it feels like an adult has finally really heard me.
And for the first time since the “incident”
I feel something close to happiness.
And I want to stay and talk to the other kids, or to Ms. Galiano, but when I look up at the clock I know I have to rush to church or Mami will know that I skipped out. So instead, I just say “Thank you”
and leave without looking back.
Caridad Is Standing Outside the Church
C: Confirmation let out early.
Your mother’s inside saying a prayer.
I told her you were using the bathroom.
X: Shit. I’m sorry. I know you hate lying to her.
C: It’s okay, Xiomara. But listen, you were mad lucky
Father Sean went straight
to the rectory after class.
X: I know, I know.
He would have blown up my whole spot.
C: Are you dealing with that boy again?
X: Actually, I was with two boys. And a girl.
Oh my God, you look like you might pass out!
I was at a poetry club meeting. There were other kids there. Relax.
C: You almost gave me a heart attack.
Speaking of poetry, I heard about an open mic
happening this Friday. We haven’t had a social activity in a while.
Down to go with me?
X: I can’t go, Caridad.
You know Mami won’t let me.
I’m still in trouble.
C: She’ll let you go
as long as it’s with me and Xavier.
Hope Is a Thing with Wings
Although I doubt it,
hope flies quick into
my body’s corners.
Thursday, December 13
Here
Although Mami still huffs like a dragon at home
and Aman has stopped
trying to say I’m sorry and Twin seems sadder
and sadder every day
and my silence feels like a leash being yanked in all directions I actually raise my hand in English class
and answer Ms. Galiano’s question.
Because at least here with her, I know my words are okay.
Haikus
Cafeterias
do not seem like safe places.
Better to chill, hide.
*
I skipped the lunchroom.
Instead I sit, write haikus inside bathroom stalls.
*
Haikus are poems.
They have three lines, follow rules of five-seven-five.
*
Traditionally
contrasting ideas are tied together neat.
*
I’m like a haiku, with different sides, except no clean tie.
*
I count syllables, using my fingers to help until the bell rings.
Offering
I gather my thoughts and things when the bathroom door flings opens.
Head down, I begin rushing out
when I hear the high-pitched voice: “Hey, X.”
I look up to see Isabelle,
in a denim shirt and another frilly-ass skirt, her curly blond fro
with a mind of its own frames her stare.
“Tell me you ain’t eat lunch in the bathroom?”
I clear my half-eaten lunch off the tray and into the trash. Without a word reach for the door.
“Just because I saw you at poetry club doesn’t mean we’re homies”
is what I don’t say but want to.
Isabelle puts a gentle hand on my shoulder; that hand stops me in my tracks.
“X, I go into the photography room during lunch, to eat and work on writing.
It’s quiet on this end of the floor and the art teacher lets me chill.
Come through if you’d like.”
Holding Twin
I click the front door closed and reach for the house phone to call Mami so she knows I’m in on time, but I feel Twin’s loud sob shake me to my bones.
I drop my bag at the door and rush to the bedroom,
where Twin is curled