Instead Aman and I pass notes on scrap paper
talking about our days, our parents,
our favorite movies and songs,
and the next time we’ll go to the smoke park.
If my body was a Country Club soda bottle,
it’s one that has been shaken and dropped
and at any moment it’s gonna pop open
and surprise the whole damn world.
Notes with Aman
A: You ever messed with anyone in school?
X: Nah, never really be into anyone.
A: We not cute enough for you?
X: Nope. Ya ain’t.
A: Damn. Shit on my whole life!
X: You just want me to say you cute.
A: Do you think I am?
X: I’m still deciding ☺
Tuesday, September 25
What I Didn’t Say to Caridad in Confirmation Class
I wanted to tell her that if Aman were a poem
he’d be written slumped across the page,
sharp lines, and a witty punch line
written on a bodega brown paper bag.
His hands, writing gently on our lab reports,
turned into imagery,
his smile the sweetest unclichéd simile.
He is not elegant enough for a sonnet,
too well-thought-out for a free write,
taking too much space in my thoughts
to ever be a haiku.
Lectures
“Mira, muchacha,”—
(I’m not sure if your eyes
can roll so hard in your head
that a stranger could use them
as a pair of dice, but if they can
someone just bad lucked on snake eyes)—
“when I was waiting for you
I saw you whispering to Caridad
in the middle of your class.
Do not let yourself get distracted
so that you lead yourself and others
from la palabra de dios.”
And although the night has cooled down
the fading summer heat,
sweat breaks out on my forehead,
my tongue feels swollen,
dry and heavy with all I can’t say.
Ms. Galiano’s Sticky Note on Top of Assignment 1
Xiomara,
Although you say you’re only “dressing your thoughts in poems,” I’ve found several of your assignments quite poetic. I wonder why you don’t consider yourself a poet?
I love that your brother gave you a notebook you still use. You really should come to the poetry club. I have a feeling you’d get a lot out of it.
—G
Sometimes Someone Says Something
And their words are like the catch of a gas stove,
the click, click while you’re waiting
for it to light up and then flame big and blue. . . .
That’s what happens when I read Ms. Galiano’s note.
A bright light lit up inside me.
But now I crumple up the note and assignment
and throw them out in the cafeteria trash can.
Because every day the idea of poetry club is like Eve’s apple:
something you can want but can’t have.
Friday, September 28
Listening
Today when Aman and I sit on the bench
I wait for him to pass me his headphones,
but he plays with my fingers instead.
“No music today, X.
Instead I want to hear you.
Read me something.”
And I instantly freeze.
Because I never, never read my work.
But Aman just sits patiently.
And with my heart thumping
I pull my notebook out.
“You better not laugh.”
But he just leans back and closes his eyes.
And so I read to him.
Quietly. A poem about Papi.
My heart pumps hard in my chest,
and the page trembles when I turn it,
and I rush through all the words.
And when I’m done I can’t look at Aman.
I feel as naked as if I’d undressed before him.
But he just keeps fiddling with my fingers.
“Makes me think of my mother being gone.
You got bars, X. I’m down to listen to them anytime.”
Mother Business
Aman and I don’t really talk about our families like that.
I know the rules. You don’t ask about people’s parents.
Most folks got only one person at home,
and that person isn’t even always the egg or the sperm donor.
But I feel like I said too much and too little about Papi.
And now I want to know more about Aman’s family.
“Can you tell me about your moms? Why is she gone?”
His mouth looks zipped-up silent.
We are quiet for a while and there’s no noise to cover my shiver.
Even lost in his thoughts, Aman notices,
tucks my hand clasped with his inside his jacket pocket.
I’m glad the cold breeze is a good excuse
for why my cheeks go pink. He finally looks at me.
His eyes trying to read something in my face.
I don’t expect him to ever answer.
And Then He Does
“My moms was a beautiful woman.
She and Pops married when they were teens.
He came here first, then sent for us.
I was old enough when I came here
that I can remember Trinidad:
the palm tree behind my grandma’s house,
the taste of backyard mangoes,
the song in the voice every time someone spoke.
I was young enough to learn how my accent
could be rolled tight between my lips
until this country smoked it out
into that clipped ‘good-accented English.’
My mother never came, you know.
She would call every day at first
and always tell me the same thing,
she ‘was handling affairs.’ ‘We’ll be together soon.’
She calls every year on my birthday.
I’ve stopped asking her when she’s coming.
Pops and I get on just fine.
I’ve learned not to be angry.
Sometimes the best way to love someone
is to let them go.”
Warmth
Aman and I walk from our park
but instead of walking straight to the train
we skip the station, then the next.
We are silent the whole walk.
Without words we are in agreement
that we’ll walk as far as we can this way:
my hand held in his held
in his coat pocket. Each of us keeping
the other warm against the quiet chill.
Tuesday, October 9
The Next Couple of Weeks
Pass by like an express train
and before I know it,
October has cooled the air,
and we’re all pressed into
hoodies and jackets.
I try to avoid Ms. Galiano,
who always reminds me
I’m more than welcome
to join poetry club.
Aman and I don’t share
a lunch period but we walk together
to the train after school,
listening to music or just enjoying the quiet.
I think we both want to do more,