The Poet X(32)

But somehow, I’m on my feet

and then the lights bright on my face make me double blink hard and the cafe that seemed so small before feels like it has a Madison Square Garden–sized audience now.

I have never experienced a silence like this.

A hundred people waiting.

Waiting for me to speak.

And I don’t think I can do it.

My hands are shaking too much,

and I can’t remember the first line of the poem.

Just a big-ass blank yawning in my memory.

My heart dribbles hard in my chest and I look at the nearest exit,

at the stairs leading to the stage—





The Mic Is Open


—and the first line clicks.

I say it, my voice trembling.

I clear my throat.

I take a breath.

I begin the poem all over again.

I forget the comparisons.

I forget the nerves.

I let the words fill the room.

I let the words carry me away.

People watch. They listen, and when I’m done

saying a poem I’ve practiced in my mirror, they clap.

And it sounds so loud that I want to cover my ears, cover my face. Two poets perform after me but I don’t hear a word with my heart in my ears.

Caridad squeezes my hand, and Twin, looking happy for a moment, whispers, “You killed that shit.”

But it’s not until we’re leaving when the host grabs me by the arm and says, “You did that.

You should come to this youth slam I’m hosting in February.

I think it’d be really powerful.”

That’s when I know,

I can’t wait to do this again.





Invitation


The slam the host tells me about is the same one that Ms. Galiano has mentioned at poetry club.

And I’m not the type to believe “everything is a sign” or whatever, but when so many parts of my life all point in one direction . . .

it’s hard not to follow the arrows.

Even when I’m home,

my hands are still shaking.

And I try not to appear

as overwhelmed as I feel.

For the first time in a long time, Twin doesn’t look sad or distracted.

He just keeps turning to me in our room, his face glowing. “Xiomara. That. Was. Amazing.”

Although I’ve never been drunk or high I think it must feel like this: off balance, giggly, unreal.

I know exactly what Twin means.

Because so many of the poems tonight felt a little like our own stories.

Like we saw and were seen.

And how crazy would it be if I did that for someone else?





Sunday, December 16





All the Way Hype


The whole weekend I relive the open mic.

Saturday and Sunday I have to bite back my excitement.

I write between cleaning.

I write instead of doing homework.

I write before and after church on Sunday.

I can’t wait for poetry club.

Going there was like being tested in fire; it helped me to be brave,

so I can’t wait to tell them about the Nuyo.

Late into the night I write and the pages of my notebook swell

from all the words I’ve pressed onto them.

It almost feels like

the more I bruise the page

the quicker something inside me heals.

Tuesday has become my equivalent to Mami’s Sunday. A prayer circle.





Monday, December 17





At Lunch on Monday


I go to the art room

and Isabelle is there with headphones and a journal and a bag of spicy Doritos.

I sit across the long table from her and open my notebook.

Suddenly she looks up and slides the huge headphones off.

“Tell me what you think.”

She starts reading,

her hands fluttering in the air.

I put my apple down to focus, because this feels like an important moment.

When she’s done, she doesn’t look at me.

And Isabelle isn’t the type not to look at someone.

I don’t tell her it’s good, even though it is.

I don’t tell her it’s beautiful, although it’s that, too.

“That gave me chills,” I say.

“I felt it here,” I say.

“You should finish it,” I say.

And when she smiles at me I smile back.





Tuesday, December 18





At Poetry Club


I let everyone know I went to an open mic.

They seem amazed.

Ask me for details.

Tell me they want to go along the next time I perform.

And I feel such a rush at the way Isabelle grabs my hand and squeals.

The way Ms. Galiano smiles like I did something to make her proud.

“How did you do?” Chris asks.

I shrug. “I didn’t suck.”

And everyone smiles,

because they know that means I killed it.





Every Day after English Class


Ms. Galiano asks me to read her something new.