The Poet X(37)

In Aman’s arms my

hands touch skin.

In Aman’s arms my shirt

comes off.

InAman’s arms I am

shy for a moment.

In Aman’s arms I am

b e a u t i f u l b e a u t i f u l

beautiful.

In Aman’s arms I feel

beautiful.

In Aman’s arms my

jeans unsnap.

In Aman’s arms I show

myself.

In Aman’s arms naked

skin rubs against mine.

In Aman’s arms kisses

and kisses. My neck and ear.

In Aman’s arms fingers

touch my breasts.

In Aman’s arms I stop

breathing.

In Aman’s arms I feel

good. So good.





And I Also Know


We have to stop.

Because now we’re lying on the couch and he’s on top of me.

And his kisses feel so good, everything feels so good.

But I also feel him pressed against me.

The part of him that’s hard.

That’s still an unanswered question I don’t have a response for.

And when his hand brushes my thigh and then moves up— I know why island people cliff dive.

Why they jump to feel free, to fly, and how they must panic for a moment when the ocean rushes toward them.

I stop his hand. I pull my face from his kiss.

He is breathing hard. He is still kissing me hard.

He is still bumping up against me. Hard.

“We have to stop.”





Tangled


Sometimes I wear these really long three-strand necklaces.

And I love how they look. Like a spiderweb of fake gold.

But they’re the worst to put away.

The next time I try to wear them they’re a tangled knot.

No beginning, no end, just snag after snag.

That’s how I feel the moment I ask Aman to back up.

Like a big tangle. I feel: guilty, because he looks so frustrated. I feel: hot and wanting. I feel: like crying because everything is so mixed up. And I feel the panic slowly die, because I can think.

I just need a moment, things to slow down,

so I can undo the knots inside me.





The Next Move


I wait for him to call me all the names I know girls get called in this moment.

I sit up and hold my bra against my chest with no memory of how I became undone.

When his fingers brush against my spine my whole body stiffens. Waiting.

But he only pulls my straps up and snaps my bra closed. Hands me my T-shirt.

We are silent as I get dressed.

I wait for him to hand me my boots.

To point me toward the door.

I know this is how it works. You put out or you get out.

So I am surprised when instead of my boots Aman hands me his own T-shirt,

and when I look at him confused

he takes it back and uses the sleeve to wipe the tears sprinting down my cheek.





There Are Words


That need to be said

but we don’t say any of them.

We watch YouTube highlights of the Winter Games.

I help Aman fry eggs and sweet plantains.

I sip a Malta. Aman drinks a bottle of his father’s Carib beer.

Somewhere in New York City it is late.

But in Aman’s living room time has stopped.

I’m dozing off, with the lights dark and the buzz of the computer.

With Aman’s soft breathing in my ear, I think of all the firsts I’ve given to this day, and all the ones I chose to keep.

And this is a better thought

than the one that wants to break through because in the back of my head I know today I’ve made decisions I will never be able to undo.





Wednesday, January 9





Facing It


When I walk into first-period English Ms. Galiano takes one look at me

and stands up from her desk, gestures me outside.

Aman offered me one of his T-shirts, but my boobs pulled it too tight across my chest and so I’m wearing the same outfit as yesterday.

And by the way she looks at me

I know that Ms. Galiano knows it.

But she doesn’t mention clothes;

she says she called my house.

That when I ran out of poetry club she got concerned, got the number from the school directory, that she spoke to my father, who sounded frantic, that my whole family was wondering where I was.

She asks me if I’ve called them.

She asks me what’s going on.

And my chest is heaving.

Because I don’t know what to tell her.

She puts a soft hand on my arm

and I look into the face of a woman not much older than me,

a woman with a Spanish last name,

who loves books and poetry,

who I notice for the first time is pretty, who has a soft voice and called my house because she was worried

and the words are out before I know it: confirmation, lying about poetry, the rice, the book burning, leaving the house, sleeping at Aman’s.

My face burns hot, and the words are too fast, and I wonder again and again why I’m saying them, and if people are looking; but I can’t seem to stop all the words that I’ve held clenched tight, and then I say words I’ve never even known I’ve thought: “I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.”