Wait—
Is this what Ms. Galiano thinks
I’m going to do in her poetry club?
She mentioned competition,
and I know slam is just that,
but she can’t think that I,
who sits silently in her classroom,
who only speaks to get someone off my back,
will ever get onstage
and say any of the things I’ve written,
out loud, to anybody else.
She must be out her damn mind.
Holding a Poem in the Body
Tonight after my shower
instead of staring at the parts of myself
I want to puzzle-piece into something else,
I watch my mouth memorize one of my poems.
Even though I don’t ever plan on letting anyone hear it,
I think about that poetry video from class. . . .
I let the words shape themselves hard on my tongue.
I let my hands pretend to be punctuation marks
that slash, and point, and press in on each other.
I let my body finally take up all the space it wants.
I toss my head, and screw up my face,
and grit my teeth, and smile, and make a fist,
and every one of my limbs
is an actor trying to take center stage.
And then Mami knocks on the door,
and asks me what I’m in here reciting,
that it better not be more rap lyrics,
and I respond, “Verses. I’m memorizing verses.”
I know she thinks I mean Bible ones.
I hide my notebook in my towel before heading to my room
and comfort myself with the fact that I didn’t actually lie.
J. Cole vs. Kendrick Lamar
Now that we’re doing real labs
Aman and I are forced to speak.
Mostly we mumble under our breath
about measurements and beakers,
but I can’t forget what I told Caridad:
I want to get to know him.
I ask him if he has the new J. Cole album.
Shuffle papers as I wait for him to answer.
Aman signs his name beneath mine on the lab report.
The bell rings, but neither of us moves.
Aman straightens and for the first time his eyes lock onto mine:
“Yeah, I got Cole, but I rather the Kendrick Lamar—
we should listen to his new album together sometime.”
Asylum
When my family first got a computer,
Twin and I were about nine.
And while Twin used it to look up astronomy discoveries
or the latest anime movies,
I used it to stream music.
Flipping the screen from music videos
to Khan Academy tutorials
whenever Mami walked into the room.
I fell in love with Nicki Minaj,
with J. Cole, with Drake and Kanye.
With old-school rappers like
Jay Z and Nas and Eve.
Every day I searched for new songs,
and it was like applying for asylum.
I just needed someone to help me escape
from all the silence.
I just needed people saying words
about all the things that hurt them.
And maybe this is why Papi stopped listening to music,
because it can make your body want to rebel. To speak up.
And even that young I learned music can become a bridge
between you and a total stranger.
What I Tell Aman:
“Maybe. I’ll let you know.”
Dreaming of Him Tonight
A boy’s face in my hands,
but he’s nearly a man.
Memories of Mami’s words
almost lash my fingers away
but still I brush upward,
against the grain and prickle
and bristle of a light beard at his jaw.
His cheekbones rise like a sun;
the large canvas of a forehead.
A nose that takes space.
This is a face that doesn’t apologize
for itself.
The boy moves his body closer to mine
and I can feel his hands
drop down from my waist to my hips
then brushing up toward these boobs I hate
that I now push at him like an offering,
his hands move so close, our faces move closer—
and then my phone alarm rings,
waking me up for school.
In my dreams his is a mouth that knows
more than curses and prayer. More
than bread and wine. More
than water. More
than blood.
More.
Thursday, September 20
The Thing about Dreams
When I get to school
I know I won’t be able to look Aman in the face.
You can’t dream about touching a boy
and then look at him in real life
and not think he’s going to see
that dream like a face full of makeup
blushing up your cheeks.
But even though I’m nervous
when I get to bio, the moment
I sit next to him I calm down.
Like my dream has given me
an inside knowledge
that takes away my nerves.
“I’d love to listen to Kendrick.
Maybe we could do it tomorrow?”
Date
This doesn’t count as a date.
Or even anything sinful.
Just two classmates
meeting up after school
to listen to music.
So I try not to freak out
when Aman agrees
to our non-date.
Mami’s Dating Rules
Rule 1. I can’t date.
Rule 2. At least until I’m married.
Rule 3. See rules 1 and 2.
Clarification on Dating Rules
The thing is,
my old-school
Dominican parents
Do. Not. Play.
Well, mostly Mami.
I’m not sure Papi
has any strong opinions,
or at least none he’s ever said.
But Mami’s been telling me
early as I can remember
I can’t have a boyfriend
until I’m done with college.
And even then,
she got strict rules
on what kind of boy
he better be.
And Mami’s words
have always been
scripture set in stone.
So I already know
going to a park
alone with Aman
might as well be
the eighth deadly sin.
But I can’t wait
to do it anyway.
Friday, September 21
Feeling Myself
All last night, I held the secret of meeting Aman
like a candle that could too easily be blown out.
Any time Mami said my name, or Twin looked in my direction,
I waited for them to ask what I was hiding.
This morning, I iron my shirt. A for-sure sign I’m scheming
since I hate to iron.
But no one says anything about the shirt,
or my new shea butter–scented lip balm.
And when I slide my jeans up my hips and shimmy into them
my legs feel powerful beneath my hands
and I smile over my shoulder at my bubble butt in the mirror.
Part II
And the Word