Angel & Hannah is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Ishle Yi Park
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by One World, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
One World and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Names: Park, Ishle Yi, author.
Title: Angel & Hannah : a novel in verse / by Ishle Park.
Other titles: Angel and Hannah
Description: New York : One World, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020042202 (print) | LCCN 2020042203 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593134320 (trade paperback; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780593134344 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories.
Classification: LCC PS3616.A7435 A83 2021 (print) | LCC PS3616.A7435 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020042202
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020042203
Ebook ISBN 9780593134344
oneworldlit.com
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Edwin Vazquez, adapted for ebook
Cover Design: Rachel Ake
Cover Images: Damian Bielak (cityscape), Getty Images (woman)
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Primavera
Verano
Otoño
Invierno
Dedication
Acknowledgments
About the Author
I am a rose of Sharon
a lily of the valleys.
Like a lily among thorns
is my darling among the maidens.
~ Song of Songs
I.
Primavera
Spring
Pssst. Ven acá. Illuwah.
Let me whisper you a story.
Way back in the spring of 1993,
Hannah met Angel in the heart of Jamaica, Queens.
They were crossing Union Turnpike in da blue of the night
when they caught eyes. Froze like winter headlights.
It was shock at first sight, loud as lightning, da charge
between them nearly stopped traffic
as the city slipped away like a raw silk dress
~ stood two wingless angels, a lovely mess
but desde el primero, Love was put to the test.
Hannah kept Angel hidden from her strict parents,
nestled in his twin bed, imagined them a rebel
Romeo & Juliet
(the book slept dog-eared in her JanSport as she cradled
his head, & dreamt a wild new life: star-crossed, star-blessed).
Perfect
By second grade, Hannah learns how to please.
Sits first row, hand raised like a timid daisy.
96% on math, 100% on spelling.
Ms. Olive wants her to skip a grade.
Perfect, except when she turns mute,
when her eyelids droop like deadweights.
No one knows her father robbed her sleep,
kicking her mother at night. How she stood between,
a boxing referee, sobbing, Hajimah! Stop it.
Please…voice crumbling like chalk.
Next morning, her mother pulls Hannah’s hair
into two high, happy pigtails. Clips her OshKosh dungarees.
Be good girl, Uma asks. Yes, Uma, Hannah says, voice bright
& thin as her classroom’s sick fluorescent lights.
Little Soldier
In second grade, Angel’s a small, inept soldier,
shoved daily by Alex, one head taller, one year older,
who calls him Red-bone, Spic, Rice n’ Beans.
Cokebottle glasses enlarge Angel’s eyes as he finger-traces
words in Lassie. Bark becomes dark.
Consonants loom like pines.
He’s sunless, compassless
in the last row’s backwoods. No one
searches for him. Mr. Heller, lost in crosswords,
sips coffee. Snaps, Will ya shut up please?
All of you — heads down! Keep reading.
Under his desk, Angel breaks a pencil…
a quiet pressure of thumbs — crackk! —
Mr. Heller’s head shoots up, a startled buck —
Who did that? Silence. Alex’s spitball
grazes Angel’s ear, a white bullet.
Before Angel
The neighborhood whizzes past her. Hannah flees.
Rides her ten-speed to the bay, air tinged
with gull-squawks and salt-wind.
A tongue of rock laps into water. She
walks barefoot over crevices, stinkweed,
a stone with Tony & Gina forever inked
in Wite-Out. A rat clinks past a Heineken.
She stares out to where the sky bleeds
blue into water, to the very edge
of herself. She wishes herself there. Past
the low slurp and suck of ebb & tide,
past Apa’s backhanded slap,
fist choked with Uma’s hair, where a crescent
moon thins like a daughter pedaling into air.
Bed
Hannah lies on a bed of books at night.
She enters them, portals to escape
the sad, repressed air of her parents,
she flies on a magic carpet of words
out the window over wild, lush gardens,
to fat gold pear trees. Leaps off fire escapes,
to moonscapes where a stallion huffs
and paws at the broken silver beneath
her hooves, she feels their ghost snorts
on her neck as she nuzzles them,
the stallion crunches fat green apples, words
like duende, hearth, tribe, flute her ears…
thin book ~ spines press against her spine,
and shadowy pages billow with her breath.
Aviation
Angel goes to Aviation High School,
cuz even though he rarely leaves his hood,
he dreams of soaring sky high, a cool
legend in control of flight ~ he can
taste the sweet wind when he makes a fleet of paper planes
in class, but Mr. Heller misunderstands
his daydreams for disrespect, claims
Angel aimed the paper missiles to hit his balding head.
Suspended for three days. Teachers are all the same,
he thinks, while rolling up a Philly blunt.
He’ll get his high another way now, blowing
O’s of gray smoke out his kitchen window for fun.
Inside, he feels a small despair growing,
but keeps his guard up, no hurt showing.
Quinceañera
On Friday nights, Carina & Hannah drink Olde E’s
on a peeling green bench a
t 109th Street Park,
till an amber, foamy buzz blurs the dark edges of night.
They watch boys shoot hoops like lean,
heartless seraphim, then test chain-linked swings,
Nike soles pointed towards heaven,
towards star-shaped leaves. Sometimes, she wonders why they
spend sunsets preening like two peacocks,
shadows huge on an abandoned playground.
But tonight, there’s somewhere else to go, Tasha’s sweet fifteen
in St. Mary’s church basement. Hannah licks her lips,
draws on scarlet liner. She puckers.
Paints herself darker, more dangerous:
a girl who can scar in the shape of a Kiss.
Cattle
Beyond flushed, sweating bodies,
pushing like cattle below black & buzzing speakers,
under a torn pink streamer
loose as a tendril of hair — lush —
his eyes. Darkluminous. Warm. A blush
floods her. Hannah sucks in her breath, but
can’t pull back. Music fades. A hush ~
he’s a young buck in the underbrush,
still in a disco ball dance of shadow & light…
all that Ever Is, Was, Will Be —
He. A deep longing floods her. And She —
black-haired raven, might startle, take flight at any breath. Leave only
a rush of wing. But neither, neither turns to flee ~
they stare boldfaced into Fate, or Destiny.
Dancehall
“Aquel viejo motel”…Hannah’s weekly salsa
classes with Maria pay off ~ she spins
in a hot whirlwind
under his leading hands, already they speak
a language beyond words ~ movements, breath,
lust, stars, sweat ~ a circle clears
in the middle of the dance floor so they can turn,
dip, laugh, wink, grind, bogle, butterfly
beside, behind, & inside each other’s arms —
DJ switches to Super Cat & she switches her backside,
grinding into his hips. She runs her fingers
down his neck, makes him shiver…
she grazes his temples with her fingertips,
she’s breathless when the song ends.
Live Wire
It’s a throbbing pulse — live wire — this unspoken electricity
crackling between them like radio static ~ she isn’t familiar
with this hair~raising heat, how it streaks thru her veins for him.
After Tasha’s quinceañera, they stand outside,
in a loose circle with Beni & Carina, eyeing each other.
He keeps his distance, shy, but eventually offers
her some Juicy Fruit gum, asks her where she’s from.
Beni is busy laughing with Carina as they walk
to the corner bodega. They slowly pair off in conversation.
She twirls her hair. He smokes a blunt —
politely refuses his offer for some.
But her number, she gives him —
And under the blazing streetlights of Jamaica & Sutphin,
he kisses her, soft, right on her lips, then disappears. She stands
~ stunned in sweetness
Quiet
He’s so silent, she muses, watching him
stare at the sun slipping into the sea
from the docks at South Street Seaport.
She loves his quiet, how deep & still he is;
an indigo ocean inside him.
his chiseled cheekbones show the sharpness
of his unspoken hungers, his eyes, deep pools
of the quiet sorrows he carries.
She laughs & talks constantly to fill da spaces,
her fears, her insecurities, the lacunae,
but learns to Still, with him — to relax
into the moment. Breathe. He doesn’t say
much, mostly one-word answers. Never one for small talk,
he finds other ways to reach her ~ twirls a long
grass blade by her ear, tickling her, chewing its ends,
picking her up & carrying her piggyback down salty blocks.
He’s a little kid inside, rejoicing in play.
She lets her guard down, her petals unfurl;
lets her smile bring a spark of sunlit joy to his harsh world.
She feels safe & calmed by his quiet, lithe grace
as a candle cupped in two warm palms. She softly glows ~
Ay, mi Angelito.
Te quiero…te amo ~
mi cielo.
El Cantante
Yo soy el cantante, and she is my Song, he sings,
a bit tipsy & slurred on his third Corona.
Y canto a la vida ~ De risas y penas
De momentos malos ~ Y de cosas buenas
Angel sings to her
to romance her, cuz words fail him
often. He used to stutter,
when he was little.
So he lets his lean, sinuous body speak for him
and instead croons a high falsetto ~
Y nadie pregunta, Si sufro o si lloro
Si tengo una pena ~ Que hiere muy hondo
Hector’s words say it all, Esa Pena — so deep —
are there words for it in English?
Pure
He was red-boned, Taíno Indian & Boricua blood, lithe,
big, dark brown eyes like a child’s, thickly lashed,
mistrustful, skeptical, mischievous, limitless ~ beautiful, watery, & deep.
Delicately handmade with iron wire.
Ashy until he shines with Vaseline lotion. He dreams of 747s
~ piloting sleek jets in pale blue skies.
Got fine cupid’s bow lips, his eyes narrow,
high cheekbones glint when women act like players ~
stone~cold, gold diggers, rugged sisters
like his sister, who carry box cutters & brass knuckles,
who have bad habits that dust their noses white
while they scream at kids to callate la boca all night…
This one, she looks innocent, so pure to him!
He can tell she hasn’t even smoked a cigarette,
a church girl~kind, but moves like Sin when she walks in.
Later that night, on his stoop, he exhales smoke~rings from his blunt
& in his mind, he replays his brave, warm kiss,
how they danced to his favorite song in unexpected bliss.
Tom & Jerry
The first time Hannah visits Angel on his block,
he’s not where he’s supposed to be ~ on the corner
slinging rocks on his workday ~ he played
hooky to get a pizza ~ so all da familia
on Hart Street got a good look at his new girl —
She hears whispers from da stoops, mira la Chinita.
She sits on one in the hot sun, asks a tough-looking Tita
with a slicked ~ back bun, Is Angel here? Why, she say. You his new girl?
Angel saunters up, kisses her, and claims her with
his arm around her shoulder. Sun bright enough
to make them wince, they go inside a brownstone apartment,
dim lit & bustling with kids. Tita Angie softens, offers them arroz con gandules.
They feast. Afterwards, he holds her hand as they
watch Tom & Jerry with his little sweet cous
ins.
Street Rat
Ay, he’s a street rat, Wanda says.
Every homegirl gives her two cents
on Angel’s dropout, drug-dealing
rap sheet. At lunch, Inez
warns her off Puerto Rican men:
Girl, they hit. They lie.
Got mad cheezes on the side.
Y celoso, not even romantic! Worse than Dominicans.
But no one knows how his eyes turn
her into legend, how his arms
shadow her like falcon wings…
In bed, words fade.
Only kisses, sweet as psalms.
No one knows his heat, his calm. His iron song.
Leaf
See her? She’s tired of it already, wants to fly
or fall, dare gravity to break her. She’s tightroping
her balcony, fingers outstretched like starfish grasping
for birch leaves and branches,
to steady her when she wavers, twists.
Leaves shiver like dried husks of vermilion angels.
They crown her hair
in a red rain. Far away, Donahue drones.
Dorito crumbs fleck the carpet like confetti.
Farther away, her uma sits, masked,
spraying rainbows on Glenda’s acrylic nails. But out here,
God — saplings snap in her hands. Below her, a grass grave.
Her heart jackrabbits; she’s balanced on an edge. Trembling,
no angels to watch her tiny, wild steps.
Boys
Yo, she’s gonna leave you, son,
Ariel slurs as he chugs his Cisco.
All these Queens bitches do — bet
— when she hits college,
gets a taste of those white boys
& their Porsches, their rich moms —
fuck that — you’ll be old news.
That’s why you gotta get yourself a cheese, son —
a queso on the side ~ women are like wine,
baby…Nah, nah, interrupts Jimmy. They like
Thug Passion — cheap, red, best when you drink a lot —
Angel & Hannah Page 1