The Poet X(36)
I scramble backward into the hallway, push up to my feet
and away from her hands.
I stand up to my full height.
And I’m glad I’m still wearing my coat and backpack, because I need to leave.
I rush to the door,
turn to see Twin pulling my mother back.
She has her arm raised: a machete ready to cut me down.
I take the stairs two at a time.
And when I am finally outside I breathe in— I have nowhere to go and nothing left.
Returning
Twin begins texting me immediately.
But I don’t answer.
When I finally reply to a text
it’s one I received two months ago.
X: Hey Aman. I need to talk.
Can you chill?
On the Walk to the Train
I call Caridad.
And she answers singing “Happy Birthday,”
but cuts herself off early.
“What’s wrong, Xio? Are you crying?”
All I said was “Hey.”
But she knows by my voice my world is on fire.
I take a breath.
She tells me to come over.
She tells me she’ll meet me.
She asks me what I need.
“Check on Twin.
Make sure he’s okay.
I just need to breathe.
I just need to leave.”
There’s a long pause.
And I can imagine her nodding through the phone.
“I’m here for you.
You’ll figure it out.”
And that’s enough.
The Ride
The train stops and starts like an old woman with a bad cough.
But I feel more than jumbled when I walk on, so a halting train doesn’t faze me at all.
When I get off on 168th it’s started snowing softly.
I turn my face up into the wetness.
I pretend this is like a movie where the sky offers healing.
But it only makes me colder.
I stand there waiting.
Knowing he said he would come.
Believing he will.
A tingle on my neck
is the only clue I have and then I smell him,
his cologne a cloud
of so many memories
I didn’t even know we’d made.
Aman’s fingers reach for my hand but he’s silent.
I keep my face open to the sky.
I squeeze his hand in mine.
No Turning Back
Aman asks me questions
but I barely hear any of them.
The only thing I feel
is the warmth of his fingers.
We walk nowhere for a while.
Until I notice: Aman is shivering.
I finally look at him.
Really look at him.
His hair is wet, his eyelashes have droplets from the snow, and he is wearing nothing but a thin hoodie.
I can see his bare ankles below his sweats— he must have rushed out without putting on socks.
I tug on his hand, and whisper against his cold cheek: “You’re cold. Let’s get out of the cold.
You live near here, right?”
And although he raises both his perfect eyebrows there is nothing left to say.
Taking Care
The long way up five flights of stairs I have all the silence and time to think.
I know that Aman’s father works nights.
That at night Aman listens to music and does homework.
And I almost laugh.
All the time we were together and happy I avoided coming here.
And now that I’m nothing but a hot mess I push my way into his home.
His couch is soft. Brown and cushiony.
No plastic covering like mine.
I don’t take my coat off. Or my backpack.
I just lean my head back and close my eyes.
I can hear Aman moving around me.
A table leg scrapes against the hardwood floor.
The refrigerator door opens and closes softly.
Then music playing.
But not J. Cole like I expected.
Not hip-hop at all.
Instead, it’s bass strings and soft steel drums.
Soca, I think, but slow and soothing.
When Aman tugs on my boots, I finally open my eyes.
And he is bending over my feet.
Staring at my mismatched socks.
Then he’s sitting beside me.
And I finally begin to feel warm.
He doesn’t ask what happened.
But the question floats like a blimp across the arch of his brows.
And so, I tell him all of my poems, my words, my thoughts, the only place I have ever been my whole self,
are a pile of ashes.
And smoke must still be lodged in my chest, because it hurts so much when I’m done speaking.
Aman doesn’t say a word;
he just pulls me to him.
In Aman’s Arms
In Aman’s arms I feel
warm.
In Aman’s arms I feel
safe.
In Aman’s arms he
apologizes.
In Aman’s arms I
apologize.
In Aman’s arms I want
to forget.
In Aman’s arms my
mouth finds his.