Was Made Flesh
Smoke Parks
Because I wouldn’t go to his house
(not that he asked me to!),
we both know that our secret friendship
can take place only in public.
Every Friday our school has a half day for professional development,
and today Aman and I shuffle to the smoke park nearby.
I’ve never smoked weed,
but I think Aman does sometimes after school;
I smell it on his sweater, and know the crowd he chills with.
But today the park is ours
and we sit on a bench with more
than our forearms “accidentally” rubbing.
His fingers brush against my face
as he places one of his earbuds in for me.
I can smell his cologne
and I want to lean in but I’m
afraid he’ll notice I’m sniffing him.
For a moment, the only thing I can hear
is my own heart loudly pumping
in my ears.
I close my eyes and let myself
find in music what I’ve always searched for:
a way away.
After an hour, when the album clicks off
and Aman tugs on my hand to pull me up from the bench
I hold on. Link my fingers with his for just a moment.
And walk to the train feeling truly thankful
that this city has so many people to hide me.
I Decided a Long Time Ago
Twin is the only boy I will ever love.
I don’t want a converted man-whore like my father
so the whole block talks about my family and me.
I don’t want a pretty boy,
or a superstar athlete, more in love with himself
than anyone else.
I wouldn’t even date a boy like Twin,
thinking people are inherently good,
always seeing the best in them.
But I have to love Twin.
Not just because we’re blood, but because
he’s the best boy I know.
He is also the worst twin in the world.
Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin
He looks nothing like me.
He’s small. Scrawny.
Straight-up scarecrow skinny.
(I must have bullied him in Mami’s belly
because it’s clear I stole all the nutrients.)
He wears glasses because he’s afraid
of poking an eye out by using contacts.
He doesn’t even try to look cool, or match.
He is, in fact, the worst Dominican:
doesn’t dance, his eyebrows connect slightly,
he rarely gets a shape-up, and he’d rather read
than watch baseball. And he hates to fight.
Didn’t even wrestle with me when we were little.
I’ve gotten into too many shove matches
trying to make sure Twin walked away
with his anime collection.
My brother ain’t no stereotype, that’s for sure.
Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin, for Real
Twin is a genius.
Full sentences at eight months old,
straight As since pre-K,
science experiments and scholarships
to space camp since fifth.
This also means we haven’t been
in the same grade since we were really little,
and then he got into a specialized high school,
so his book smarts meant
I couldn’t even copy his homework.
He is an award-winning bound book,
where I am loose and blank pages.
And since he came first, it’s his fault.
And I’m sticking to that.
Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin (Last and Most Important Reason)
He has no twin intuition!
He doesn’t get sympathy pains.
He doesn’t ever randomly know
that I had a bad day or that I need help.
In fact, he rarely lifts his eyes from the
page of a Japanese comic or the computer screen
long enough to know that I’m here at all.
But Why Twin Is Still the Only Boy I’ll Ever Love
Because although speaking to him
is like talking to a scatterbrained saint,
every now and then, he’ll say, in barely a mumble,
something that shocks the shit out of me.
Today he looks up from his textbook and blinks.
“Xiomara, you look different.
Like something inside of you has shifted.”
I stop breathing for a moment.
Is my body marked by my afternoon with Aman?
Will Mami see him on me?
I look at Twin, the puzzled smile on his face;
I want to tell him he looks different, too—
maybe the whole world looks different
just because I brushed thighs with a boy.
But before I get the words out
Twin opens his big-ass mouth:
“Or maybe it’s just your menstrual cycle?
It always makes you look a little bloated.”
I toss a pillow at his head and laugh.
“Only you, Twin. Only you.”
Sunday, September 23
Communication
Aman and I exchanged numbers to talk about lab work
but when I leave Mass I’m surprised to see
he’s messaged me.
A: So what did you think of the Kendrick?
And because Mami is angry-whispering
at me for sitting out the sacrament again
(I’ll do another bid of Mass all week if I have to),
I cage my squeal behind my teeth.
I type a quick response:
X: It was cool. We should listen to something else next time.
And his response is almost immediate:
A: Word.
About A
Every time I think about Aman
poems build inside me
like I’ve been gifted a box of metaphor Legos
that I stack and stack and stack.
I keep waiting for someone to knock them over.
But no one at home cares about my scribbling.
Twin: oblivious—although happier than he usually looks.
Mami: thinking I’m doing homework.
Papi: ignoring me as usual . . . aka being Papi.
Me: writing pages and pages about a boy
and reciting them to myself like a song, like a prayer.
Monday, September 24
Catching Feelings
In school things feel so different.
Ms. Galiano asks me about the Spoken Word Poetry Club,
and I try to pretend I forgot about it.
But I think she can tell by my face
or my shrug that I’ve been secretly practicing.
That I spend more time writing poems
or watching performance videos on YouTube
than I do on her assignments.
At lunch, I sit with the same group I sat with last year,
a table full of girls that want to be left alone.
I find comfort in apples and my journal,
as the other girls read books over their lunch trays,
or draw manga, or silently text boyfriends.
Sharing space, but not words.
In bio, when I lower my ass into the seat
next to Aman, I wonder if I should sit slower,
or faster, if I should write neater,
or run a fingertip across his knuckles
when Mr. Bildner isn’t looking.