The Poet X(39)

In bio we learn about erosion.

About how over time a small stream of water falling down the same rock face for centuries can break an entire mountain apart

little bit by little bit.

For the next couple of weeks,

my mother and I work to break down

some of the things that have built up between us.

We meet with Father Sean once a week

and talk. Sometimes about each other.

Sometimes just about our days.

My mother starts teaching Communion classes, and she seems happier than I’ve ever seen her.

The little kids make her smile, she gets excited over teaching certain passages, and I remember it used to be like that with me once.

It’s a sweet memory made sweeter when at the third session with Father Sean, she gives me my name bracelet back,

the gold melded where it’d been broken, but still whole.

Sometimes Twin and Papi come to the sessions with Father Sean. Twin wiggles uncomfortably in his chair. I know there’s a lot he doesn’t say.

But I hope, one day, he will be able to say it.

Papi, surprisingly, loves to talk. And once he gets going he makes all of us laugh, and when we are talking about him and the things he’s done that have hurt us, he doesn’t leave.

He listens.

One day, as we’re all leaving Father Sean turns to me and I brace myself, afraid he is going to ask about confirmation, and that’s still a can of worms I ain’t fishing with, but instead he says:

“Xavier told us you’re performing in a poetry competition.

Your very own boxing ring, eh?

I assume we’re all invited?”





Slam Prep


Ms. Galiano wouldn’t let me back out.

Even with everything going on,

she said I needed to give it a chance.

So, I practiced in front of my mirror and at poetry club.

Although I lost so many poems,

and I feel a pang every time I think about them burning, I’m also so proud of all I remember.

I’m trying to convince myself rewriting means the words really mattered in the first place.

I need one really strong poem and although I hate the idea of being judged and scored . . .

I love the idea of people listening.

(And, of course, winning.)

But, the thing is, all my poems are personal.

Some of the other slammers,

I know they write about politics and school.

But my poems? They’re about me.

About Twin and Papi, about Aman.

About Mami.

How can I say things like that in front of strangers?

In house stays in house, right?

“Wrong,” Ms. Galiano tells me.

She tells me words give people permission to be their fullest self. And aren’t these the poems I’ve most needed to hear?





Ms. Galiano Explains the Five Rules of Slam:





1. All poems must be under three minutes


2. All work must be the poet’s original work 3. You are not allowed to use props or costumes 4. You are not allowed to perform with someone onstage 5. You are not allowed to use a musical instrument





Xiomara’s Secret Rules of Slam:


1. Do not faint onstage

2. Do not forget your poem onstage

3. Do not stumble over words or visibly mess up onstage

4. Do not give a disclaimer or introduction to your poem

5. Do not walk offstage without finishing the poem





The Poetry Club’s Real Rules of Slam:


1. Perform with heart

2. Remember why you wrote the poem

3. Go in with all your emotions

4. Tell the audience all of the things

5. Don’t suck





Friday, February 1





Poetic Justice


One week before the slam Twin, Mami, and Papi sit on the couch.

I take a deep breath and try not to fidget.

I open my mouth

and silence.

I can’t do this. I can’t perform in front of them.

The living room feels too small; they’re too close to me.

The words shrivel up and hide under my tongue.

Twin gives me an encouraging nod, but I can tell that even he’s nervous about how my parents might react.

I close my eyes

and feel the first words of the poem unwrinkle themselves, expand in my mouth, and I let them loose and the other words just follow.

The room feels too small, the eyes all on me,

and I take a step back but continue staring at the wall, at the family portrait hanging over Papi’s head.

When I’m done Twin is smiling.

When I’m done Papi claps.

When I’m done Mami cocks her head and says:

“Use your hand gestures a little less and next time, en voz alta.

Speak up, Xiomara.”





Friday, February 8





The Afternoon of the Slam


Aman and I go to the smoke park.

I don’t tell him I’m nervous but he still holds my hand in his, slips an earbud into my ear, and plays Nicki Minaj.

When the album is done, I get up to leave

but he tugs my hand