See Ms. Galiano in room 302 for details.
It’s layered behind other more colorful
and bigger-lettered announcements
but it still makes me stop
halfway down the staircase,
as kids late to class
try their best to accidentally
make me topple down the stairs.
But I’m rooted to the spot,
a new awareness buzzing over the noise.
This poster feels personal,
like an engraved invitation
mailed directly to me.
After the Buzz Dies Down
I crumple the flyer in my backpack.
Balled and zipped up tight.
Tuesdays I have confirmation class.
Not a chance Mami’s gonna let me out of that.
Not a chance I want anyone hearing my work.
Something in my chest flutters like a bird
whose wings are being gripped still
by the firmest fingers.
Tuesday, September 18
Aman
After two weeks of bio review,
safety lessons, and blahzayblahblah—
we’re finally starting real work.
A boy, Aman, is assigned as my lab partner.
I saw him around last year,
but this is our first class together.
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.
And although the poet isn’t in the room
it feels right to acknowledge her this way,
even if it’s only polite applause;
my own hands move against each other.
Ms. Galiano asks about the themes and presentation style
but instead of raising my hand I press it against my heart
and will the chills on my arms to smooth out.
It was just a poem, Xiomara, I think.
But it felt more like a gift.