The Poet X(35)
That she found it, that I wrote it, that I ever thought my thoughts were mine.
She holds the lit match up
to a corner of my notebook.
“Get a trash can, Xiomara.
I don’t want ashes on my floor.”
If Your Hand Causes You to Sin
“If your hand causes you to sin . . .
If your eye causes you to sin . . .
If this notebook, this writing, causes you to sin . . .”
The smell of burning leather propels me.
I push from the doorway
and reach for her hand.
Hundreds of poems, I think.
Years and years of writing.
She turns before I can get my hand on the notebook, shoves her elbow hard into my chest.
Recites the words loud again and again.
“If your hand causes you to sin . . .
If your eye causes you to sin . . .
If this notebook, this writing, causes you to sin . . .”
And for the first time in my life I understand the word desperate.
How it’s a pointed hunger in the belly.
Please. Please. Please.
She holds me off with the lit match, but I make another grab
and the smoking book falls to the floor.
We both reach for it
and just as my fingers grace the cover, feel the etched woman on the leather, my mother slaps me back hard onto my ass.
The Christmas bracelet rattles to the floor, but as I breathe near the door, my cheek stinging, all I can do is watch the pages burn.
And as she recites Scripture
words tumble out of my mouth too,
all of the poems and stanzas I’ve memorized spill out, getting louder and louder, all out of order, until I’m yelling at the top of my lungs, heaving the words like weapons from my chest; they’re the only thing I can fight back with.
Verses
“I’m where the X is marked, I arrived battle ready—”
“Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia;”
“I am the indication, I sign myself across the line.”
“el Se?or es contigo; bendita tú eres
entre todas las mujeres,”
“The X I am
is an armored dress
I clothe myself in every morning.”
“y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús.”
“My name is hard to say, and my hands are hard, too.
I raise them here
to build the church of myself.
This X was always an omen.”
“Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros, pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.
Amén.”
Burn
Mami stares at me like I’m speaking in tongues and continues praying.
We’re wild women, flinging verses at each other like grenades in a battlefield, a cacophony of violent poems— and then we’re both gasping, wordless.
Tears roll down our cheeks, but mine aren’t from the smoke.
I cough on my own tongue.
I’ve never mourned something dying before this moment.
I have no more poems. My mind blanks.
A roar tears from my mouth.
“Burn it! Burn it.
This is where the poems are,” I say, thumping a fist against my chest.
“Will you burn me? Will you burn me, too?
You would burn me, wouldn’t you, if you could?”
Where There Is Smoke
I’m not sure when Papi and Twin tuned in but I feel Twin rush past me; he reaches for the notebook
but Mami hisses at him to step back and stomps on the smoking pages.
Papi is in the room.
He speaks softly to my mother, saying her name over and over, “Altagracia, Altagracia.”
When he reaches for the book, she hisses at him too,
but he is soft with her,
approaching a frothing pit bull, he bends and grabs the book by a corner and tugs.
When she lets go, he knocks it against the wall, trying to put out the burning leather, yells at Twin to get the fire extinguisher.
Can a scent tattoo itself onto your memory?
That’s a mixed metaphor, isn’t it?
My notebook is smoldering,
my heart feels like it’s been burned crisp, and all I can think about are mixed metaphors.
Things You Think About in the Split Second Your Notebook Is Burning
If I were on fire
who could I count on to water me down?
If I were a pile of ashes who could I count on to gather me in a pretty urn?
If I were nothing but dust would anyone chase the wind trying to piece me back together?
Other Things You Think About in the Split Second Your Notebook Is Burning
I will never
write a single
poem
ever again.
I will never
let anyone
see my full heart
and destroy it.
My Mother Tries to Grab Me
Papi snatches the extinguisher from Twin and puts out the small fire.
My mother has been standing behind the blaze, but as the puff of dry chemicals rises between us my knees know where she will lead me the moment the air clears.