The Poet X(38)

And I’m saying them against Ms. Galiano’s small frame, her slim arms around me as she hugs me tight.

As she tells me over and over: “Just breathe. Just breathe.

It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.”





“You Don’t Have to Do Anything You Don’t Want to Do.”


And so I take a breath

I didn’t realize I needed to take.

When has anyone ever said those words to me?

Maybe only Aman, who’s never forced me to smoke, or kiss, or anything.

But everyone else just wants me to do: Mami wants me to be her proper young lady.

Papi wants me to be ignorable and silent.

Twin and Caridad want me to be good so I don’t attract attention.

God just wants me to behave so I can earn being alive.

And what about me? What about Xiomara?

When has anyone ever told me

I had the right to stop it all

without my knuckles, or my anger, with just some simple words.

“But you do have to talk to your mom.

Really talk to her. And you do need to figure out how to make a relationship with her work.”





What I Say to Ms. Galiano After She Passes Me a Kleenex


Okay.





Going Home


Is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

All day I’ve been unfocused. Unsure of what I need to do.

Of how to do it. Hands trembling at the thought

of what will happen when I walk through the front door.

Because my mother’s ears are soundproof when it comes to me.

The only one she ever listens to is God.

During lunch, Isabelle doesn’t ask what happened,

she just hands me her bag of Doritos.

After bio, Aman rubs my shaking hands as we walk out the door.

His gentle hold warms me up.

During last period, Ms. Galiano comes to my math classroom and gives me a note with her personal cell number in case I need to talk to her later.

When I step out of school, Aman’s hand in mine,

both Caridad and Twin are standing at the front gate.

And although none of them can face Mami for me, I know I’m not alone. And I finally know who might help.





Aman, Twin, and Caridad


I introduce Aman to Twin and Caridad before we all walk to the train station.

I want to ask Twin what happened after I left last night.

But I don’t want to know.

I can tell by how tired he looks that whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

No one says anything for a long time.

Caridad squeezes my hand and tells me to call her.

Aman kisses my forehead and tells me “we gon’ be all right.”

When Twin catches me looking at him he gives me a soft smile.

And then his eyes begin to water.

On that rocking train, we hug and rock, too.





Divine Intervention


I make a stop

before going home.

Because I know

assistance comes

in mysterious ways

and I’m going to need

all the help I can get.





Homecoming


At the apartment door, I slide the key in, but don’t unlock.

I can hear both people behind me breathing.

Mami might not be home yet.

I still have time to gather my thoughts.

To get my life together.

But when I open the door

she is there. Standing in the kitchen, wringing a dishrag. Her eyes are red.

And she looks small, so small.

Twin gives my shoulder a squeeze and moves behind me.

I take a deep breath and square my shoulders.

“Mami, we need to talk.

And I think we need help to do it.”

I step aside and let Father Sean cram into the kitchen.

He reaches out a hand to my mother: “Altagracia.”

And this woman I’ve feared, this woman who has been both mother and monster, the biggest sun in my sky— bright, blinding, burning me to the wick— she hunches her shoulders and begins to sob.

Silent, silent crying that shakes her whole body.

And I am stuck, and still.

Before I go to her.





My Mother and I


Might never be friends.

Will never shop for a prom dress together and paint designs on each other’s nails.

My mother and I

might never learn

how to give and accept an apology from the other.

We might be too much the same mirror.

But our arms can do what our words can’t just now.

Our arms can reach.

Can hug tight.

Can teach us

to remember each other.

That love can be a band: tears if you pull it too hard, but also flexible enough to stretch around the most chaotic mass.

My mother does not say she is sorry.

That she loves me.

And I hope one day for the words, but for now, her strong pat on my back, her hand through my hair, this small moment of soft.

Is enough.





Thursday, January 24





Stronger