The Poet X(9)

He shifts at the two-person desk we share and his forearm touches mine.

After a moment, I shift on purpose,

liking how my arm brushes against his.

I pull away quickly.

The last thing I need is for someone to see me trying to holla at a dude in the middle of class.

Then I’ll really be known as fast.

But it’s like his forearm brush changed everything.

Now I notice how I’m taller than him by a couple of inches.

How full his mouth is. How he has a couple of chin hairs.

How quiet he is. How he peeks at me from under his lashes.

Near the end of class, as we both stare at the board I let my arm rest against his. It seems safe, our silence.





Whispering with Caridad Later That Day


X: There’s this boy at school . . .

C: This is why your mom should have sent you

with me to St. Joan’s.

X: Are you kidding? Half those girls

end up pregnant before graduating.

C: No exageres, Xio.

And we’re going to get in trouble.

We’re supposed to be annotating this verse.

X: You and I could break this verse down in our sleep.

It’s not wrong to think a boy is fine, you know.

C: It’s wrong to lust, Xio. You know it’s a sin.

X: We’re humans, not robots. Even our parents lusted once.

C: That’s different. They were married.

X: You don’t think they lusted before the aisle?

Girl, bye. Anyways, there’s a boy at school.

He’s cute. His arm . . . is warm.

C: I don’t even want to know what you mean by that.

Is that code for something? Stop being fresh.

X: Caridad, you always trying to protect me

from my dirty mind . . . of warm arms.

C: Sometimes I think I’m the only one

trying to protect you from yourself.





What Twin Be Knowing


As I’m getting ready for sleep, I’m surprised to see the crumpled poetry club flyer neatly unfolded and on my bed.

It must have fallen out of my bag.

Without looking up from the computer screen, Twin says in barely a whisper, “This world’s been waiting

for your genius a long time.”

My brother is no psychic, no prophet, but it makes me smile,

this secret hope we share, that we are both good enough for each other and maybe the world, too.

But when he goes to brush his teeth, I tear the flyer into pieces before Mami can find it.

Tuesdays, for the foreseeable future, belong to church. And any genius I might have belongs only to me.





Sharing


Although Twin and I are super different, people find it strange how much we share.

We shared the same womb, the same cradle, and our whole lives the same room.

Mami wanted to find a bigger apartment, told Papi we should move to Queens, or somewhere far from Harlem,

where we could each have our own room.

But apparently, although Papi had changed he still stood unmoved.

Said everything we could want was here.

And sharing a room wouldn’t kill us.

And it hasn’t.

Except. I once heard a rumor

that goldfish have an evolutionary gene where they’ll only develop as big as the tank they’re put into.

They need space to stretch. And I wonder if Twin and I are keeping each other small.

Taking up the space that would have let the other grow.





Questions for Ms. Galiano


I’m one of the first students in English class the next day.

And although I promised myself I would keep my lips stapled together when Ms. Galiano asks me how I’m doing, the words trip and twist their ankles

trying to rush out my mouth: “Soyourunthepoetryclubright?”

She doesn’t laugh. Cocks her head, and nods.

“Yes, we just started it this year. Spoken Word Poetry Club.”

And my face must have been all kinds of screwed-up confused because she tries to explain how spoken word is performed poetry, but it all sounds the same to me . . . except one is memorized.

“It might be easier if I showed you.

I’ll pull a clip up as today’s intro to class.

Are you thinking of joining the club?”

I shake my head no. She gives me that look again, when someone who doesn’t know you is sizing you up like you’re a broken clock and they’re trying to translate the ticks.





Spoken Word


When class starts Ms. Galiano projects a video: a woman onstage, her voice quiet,

then louder and faster like an express train picking up speed.

The poet talks about being black, about being a woman, about how beauty standards make it seem she isn’t pretty.

I don’t breathe for the entire three minutes while I watch her hands, and face,

feeling like she’s talking directly to me.

She’s saying the thoughts I didn’t know anyone else had.

We’re different, this poet and I. In looks, in body, in background. But I don’t feel so different when I listen to her. I feel heard.

When the video finishes, my classmates,

who are rarely excited by anything, clap softly.