The Poet X(33)


With five minutes between classes, I know I need to pick the best and shortest pieces in advance.

But every day I pick a new poem and I have learned: to slow down, to breathe, to pace myself, to show emotion.

The last day before winter break

Ms. Galiano tells me I’m really blossoming.

And I think about what it means to be a closed bud, to become open.

And even though it’s cliché, it’s also perfect.

When I see Stephan in the hallway, he reads me his latest haiku.

When I see Chris on my way to the train, he always has a smile for me

and a “Wassup, X! Write anything new?”

And I know that I’m ready to slam.

That my poetry has become something I’m proud of.

The way the words say what I mean, how they twist and turn language, how they connect with people.

How they build community.

I finally know that all of those “I’ll never, ever, ever”

stemmed from being afraid but not even they can stop me. Not anymore.





Monday, December 24





Christmas Eve


My mother doesn’t buy a Christmas tree.

Instead she buys three big poinsettias and sets them on a red tablecloth

on the living room windowsill.

Noche Buena, the Good Night,

has always been one of my favorite holidays.

On TV white families

always open gifts on Christmas Day, but most Latinos celebrate the night before.

During the day Caridad comes over,

bringing her mother’s famous coquito that’s laced with a little bit of rum.

We play video games with Twin

and exchange cards we made for each other.

Mami has always made Twin and me

go to the Midnight Mass to celebrate Baby Jesus and when we get back we’ve been allowed to open gifts.

This year when we get home from church I go straight to my room.

I know better than to expect anything.

I lie in bed, with Chance the Rapper in my ear, when there’s a knock on the door.

I look, imagining it’s Twin trying to be respectful.

Except it’s not. Mami stands there.

With a small wrapped box in her hand.

She shuffles into the room, sets the gift on the desk, and like she doesn’t know what to do with her hands she picks up Twin’s sweater from the computer chair and neatly refolds it.

When she sits, I sit up in bed, unsure of what to do.

But just as fast as she sits down she stands, gestures to the gift, and walks to the door.

“I had it resized for you.

I know how much you like jewelry.”





It’s a Rosary


I think before I open the box.

My mother doesn’t believe in any other kind of jewelry.

But when I lift the lid, I see a small gold plaque with my name etched on it, a thin gold chain making the bracelet complete.

And I know I’ve seen this plaque before.

When I turn it over

I remember where.

Inscribed on the inside are two Spanish words: Mi Hija.

This was my baby bracelet.

Mami must have kept it all these years.

But why she resized it now makes absolutely no sense.

I lay it across my wrist and cinch the clasps closed.

Her daughter on one side, myself on the other.

And I feel so many things but mostly relief that it wasn’t a rosary.





Wednesday, December 26–Tuesday, January 1





Longest Week


The week after Christmas is the longest week of my life.

I write and I write and I read poems to Twin, who is still in his feelings and refusing

to talk to me about Cody, but I see him texting Caridad, who’s the most sympathetic of us all,

so probably a good decision.

I read the poems so often and edit so much that I begin memorizing them by accident until my head is full of words and stories, until I’m practicing the poems in my dreams.

And the more I write the braver I become.

I write about Mami, about feeling like an ant, about boys trying to always holler at me,

about Aman, about Twin. Sometimes I’m still awake writing when Mami gets up at the ass crack of dawn to go to work. So many words fill my notebook and I can’t wait to share them all.

But still another week to go until poetry club.





Wednesday, January 2





The Waiting Game


Because of New Year’s,

we don’t start school again until Wednesday.

So I miss poetry club by just one day.

Although I’m disappointed,

the extra week gives me more time to write.

Isabelle and I share some poems during lunch.

And if I catch Stephan or Chris in the hallways, we’ll joke or talk about a new piece.

With my birthday in a week,

I realize that this new year hasn’t started off so bad.





Tuesday, January 8





Birthdays


On our birthday Twin and I exchange gifts in the morning right before we leave for school.

I got him an X-Men comic, issue 17.

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