The Poet X(31)

on my bed, crying

into a stuffed elephant.

And for once,

I’m glad we don’t need words.

I brush his curls and sit beside him.

And I know something has happened with the red-haired boy.

“Did you get in another fight?”

I ask, and shake him hard.

“Was it Cody? Was he the one that hit you before?”

But even through his tears Twin looks at me like I’m crazy.

“No, he didn’t hit me. Cody would never.

That black eye was just some idiot in gym.

This, this is so much worse.”





Cody


Twin’s story comes out in pieces: He met Cody’s family last week, when his parents dropped him off at school.

Apparently they loved Twin (who wouldn’t) and wanted him to come over for dinner.

(Parents being accepting of sexuality seems all kinds of bizarre to me because the thought of what my parents would do if they knew makes every bone in my body hurt.) It seemed perfect, Twin says, finally a person and place and family that accept him for who he is.

But it turns out Cody’s father is being relocated for his job

after winter break and Cody

thinks long distance will be too hard.

So he broke it off with Twin.

And seems to have cracked

something inside him in the process.

I hold Twin close to me, and rock him back and forth.

“Us Batista twins have no luck with love.

You would have thought we’d be smarter guarding our hearts.”





Problems


Twin can’t stop shaking,

his whole skinny body trembling, and he’s breathing so hard

his glasses keep fogging up.

I take them off his face and pat his back, tell him we’ll figure this out together.

That with a bit more time and space it’ll all feel clearer.

I glance at the clock.

“You need to calm down a bit; Mami will be home soon. . . . Shit.”

Mami! I forgot to call her.





Dominican Spanish Lesson:


Brava (feminine ending), adj. meaning fierce, ferocious, mad tempered.

As in: Mami was mad brava when she came home because I hadn’t called her. And even more so when she saw Twin crying and thought I had done something to him.

As in: I became brava Twin didn’t correct her. (I think he was too busy biting back sobs. And the last thing I’m going to do right now is correct Mami on anything.) As in: We’re both brava; she’s already threatening to send me to D.R. after winter break instead of during the summer. (The last thing I need to do is get on her bad side.) As in: She was so brava her whole face shook and she began praying underneath her breath then she just pointed to the bathroom and I knew she meant for me to clean it.





Permission


When Caridad calls later that night Mami listens to her talk on the phone.

And although Mami sounds all nice

she keeps shooting me the shadiest looks.

Finally, she says, “Está bien.” Fine.

I can go with Caridad to a poetry event.

But only if Twin comes along, too.

I am sure convincing him will be tough.

His eyes are so swollen from crying he’s had to lie to my parents and tell them he rubbed his eyes after a chemistry lab gone wrong.

But when I mention the open mic night he must want any excuse not to think of Cody because he quickly agrees to come along.





Friday, December 14





Open Mic Night


The legendary Nuyorican Poets Cafe is not close to Harlem.

It takes us two trains and a walk in the brick-ass cold to get there, and when we do, the line to get in is halfway down the block.

Not even nightclubs around the way look half as packed as this.

The cafe is dimly lit, with paintings on the wall.

The host is a statuesque black woman with a bright red flower in her hair.

When she calls out the names on her list, I’m surprised to hear my own.





Signed Up


Caridad tells me she signed me up to perform and immediately my hands start shaking.

I’ve got to get out of here right-right now.

But Caridad is having none of it.

She just grabs my arm and Twin pulls me along with the other.

“You got this, Xio.”

But every time someone gets onstage I compare myself to them.

Is my poem going to make

people say mmmm or snap?

What if nobody claps?

Some of the poets are so, so good.

They make the audience laugh,

they make me almost cry,

they use their bodies and faces

and know just how to talk into the mic.

The host keeps the show moving

and as another person gets offstage I know my name is creeping up her list until her clear, crisp voice calls out, “Xiomara.”

And I’m frozen stiff.

“I think she’s shy, y’all.

Someone told me she’s an open mic newbie.

Keep clapping, keep clapping, keep clapping until she gets to the stage.”

And so now not only am I frozen stiff, I’m also blushing and breaking into a sweat.