Angel & Hannah

by Ishle Yi Park

  and yo, they fidduck you up!

  Jimmy laughs, slaps Beni a low five.

  Angel sucks his teeth, rolls his eyes.

  Dime (Angel)

  Why? Cuz she one of those good girls.

  Straight A’s in class,

  but wild inside: can

  down a forty like a man. Nice ass.

  Chinita too. Never been with one of those.

  Googie’s boo wuz Filipina. She gave him two sons:

  Mateo & Isagani. And scratches on his neck, son

  ~ she’s a panther.

  He’d catch wreck

  for breaking night. He hit her.

  But that old drama’s not for

  Me.

  Hannah’s my dime ~ small. pure. Shining.

  She.

  Arirang

  In the old Korean song, one lover leaves another

  on Arirang Mountain. You won’t walk ten li

  away from me without an ache in your feet,

  she sings. Because that is the nature

  of love: memories live on ~ make a home inside a body.

  It’s wisdom from Hannah’s home ~ country,

  from women who love in moon villages far from the sea.

  When Hannah’s mother left Korea with Hannah in her belly,

  she stole that song across the ocean,

  sang it as a lullaby as she bathed Hannah’s young skin. Years later,

  Hannah hums Arirang on her way to meet her first lover,

  from the moon village of Queens to the moon village of Brooklyn.

  April. Aigu. Balam innat dah. A fresh wind blows inside her.

  Last night, the wind shook mimosas on Fifth

  so she walks on pink petals to meet him.

  Before Hannah

  Before Hannah, Angel had crass,

  blunt sex — once banged a girl atop a toilet,

  ponytail hitting the rusted handle, once up the ass

  of a thirty-one-year-old Mexican. Beni opened the door & laughed.

  Angel hiked up his jeans and left,

  threw a balled twenty on the flowered dresser.

  Lust: a tequila shot he swallowed fast,

  no chaser. Never had a girl who wept

  black rivers on his shoulder,

  kept her legs locked like stuck pliers,

  kissed the cat-edges of his eyes.

  The first Friday Hannah slept

  over, she sat up in his bed, her eyes like small fires, she said, Angel, let’s be more. Let’s be real friends, too, You and I —

  Roller Coaster

  Hannah silently, steadily waits on Angel to call.

  One day. Two days. Three days.

  Finally, a ring!!! Sweet & lovely

  to hear his hoarse, sandpaper voice tickle her ears.

  A week or two will pass before she hears

  from him again. Is he a player? Did he get arrested? Is he

  alive?? She secretly frets, but when he calls again, she feigns coolness,

  a lighthearted interest, when really, her whole being

  is longing for another chance to be with him, to see

  what he will do next to charm her, awaken her eyes, her lips, her heart, her hips.

  This is what you get, she sighs to herself,

  falling for a pretty sun-kissed boy with longer lashes than yours, girl.

  She’s drawing their names graffiti~style in her binder in art class already,

  entwined with hearts, stars, & crescent moons.

  So when I get to see you again, Ma?

  He asks sweetly. Soon, she says. Soon.

  Globe

  They lay under the wink of the silver globe

  in Flushing Meadows Park under a melting golden sun,

  (she kisses his neck) they’d just begun.

  (she kisses his earlobe) Reading Neruda’s poems,

  each word a hummingbird, midflight,

  whirs silver ~ blue across the air —

  her boy of flint and sinew, quietly despairs.

  He sucks his teeth until he gets each word right.

  His eyelids shudder every time they kiss

  beneath golden-plumed cattails; his fingertips

  fluid as they stroke and spin her hips.

  She moves him too, those dusky afternoons,

  whispering, Tonight I can write the saddest lines,

  beneath the shadow of the world’s falling latitudes.

  Kiss

  Ay, who taught this boy how to kiss

  like wind shirring a lake? His glinting,

  lean, muscled boy~shape…Everything

  he did with his mouth, a miracle —

  how he slow-licked a red Popsicle

  or rolled a Philly blunt, darkening

  its skin with pointed tongue-tip…

  In April, they bloom & kiss —

  he grabs the wooden slats above his bunk,

  hip bones grinding down. But lips —

  barely grazing hers —

  tongue~twirls. Quick

  bites. He knots a cherry stem inside his mouth

  & slips it in her mouth, O wicked gift!

  Faith

  Why are they in love, you ask? Why does

  water love sky? Moon chase sun? Light

  reflect light? Maybe they love & caress

  the hurt little kids hiding inside both of them ~

  when they let the swagger down they let

  tears. let song. let ache. let kiss. They give

  each other space to dance,

  to touch, to sing, to sigh, to burp, to laugh,

  to stand proud (Pa’lante mi gente! Mansei! Amen), to collapse,

  to hold each other sacred, sweet, & solid.

  Some red ~ gold ~ fire chemistry ~

  body alchemy & spiritual transformation ~

  cultural education ~ they are in Love thru Space

  & Time ~ like all star ~ crossed first loves ~ Divine.

  Who knows why angels orchestrate this Love?

  Trust it is Blessed from up Above. Amen.

  Weaver

  O what a web she weaves! A dazzling

  and intricate thread of lies and half ~

  truths designed to keep her mom in comfortable

  darkness, she’ll say ~ I’m studying

  at Carina’s tonight ~ we have a test in math

  tomorrow ~ I need my study buddies ~ please ~

  her parents, overworked & underpaid immigrants, leave

  her be. She commutes on bus & trains thru badly

  lit, grimy, urine ~ smelling stations just to taste

  one hour of freedom ( ~ Queendom ~ ) by his side, his hand

  twirling her curls at dusk. She’ll be home late

  after she dances a few steps of salsa with La Fania All Stars

  blasting on the boom box of his porch steps ~

  mmm ~ a new romance sways in the sweltering heart of Brooklyn.

  Hannah’s Parents

  (Pssst. Just letting you know, dear Reader, that sometimes,

  these sonnets don’t rhyme. Don’t keep perfect couplets,

  terza rimas, quatrains, or strict form, because Life often spills

  outside da lines! Just like paint, just like pain, papi ~ just like

  there are no words in English to describe to you

  da Han of Hannah’s parents ~ who carried memories

  of war in their inner children, who as nail salon owners


  would never have a chance to afford or go to therapy,

  as they are country people of green valleys and full harvest moons,

  all their golden beauty lost in cold white cities where their names

  are butchered & mispronounced & made fun of daily,

  while dollars still soften their callused hands. Hannah’s parents,

  overworked & silently missing Soju nights

  with watermelon & squid anju & singing Arirang

  & Sarang~ga with drunk, sloppy, & happy

  Koreans who look & sound just like them ~ a kind of heaven.

  They miss that, but cannot articulate nostalgia (Corea) to their born~here~daughter~

  the beloved mother~land they left behind to give her this,

  swinging golf clubs with thwacking fury over manicured green lawns

  so perfect they make a man believe he has freedom.)

  They come home when late-night Letterman

  blares with canned laughter, long after Hannah

  makes her rice & kim & kimchee rolls & tucks

  her younger sister into bed, long after all the train rides

  and bus transfers & taxi rides that transport their daughter

  to the quiet pockets in the playgrounds,

  seaports, beaches, corners, stoops, tree stumps that her & her lover use

  as backdrops to their quietly blooming romance.

  It all starts with a dance, she sighs, in remembrance, she

  loves the way he always holds her hand &

  pretends to lay out magic carpets in the rain ~

  she feels a cartoonish, ballooning, indescribable joy with him ~

  her secret, sweet angel tucked in the silver wings of Brooklyn.

  Train

  She sings, I will love you anyway,

  even if you cannot stay, echoing

  Mary J as she waits for the R train,

  voice husky as coarse grain.

  Morning sun at Queensboro Plaza

  casts slim white bars on the ground —

  mute piano keys commuters pound

  with shuffling, transient feet. Are

  we all drifters, made of smoke?

  She’s on her way

  from Bayside to Bushwick,

  four subway transfers, two hours away. She

  prays for the G to come quickly. She starts to sing,

  when the train steals her song with its metal wind.

  Rivers

  It’s always an adventure to go meet Angel. She prefers to travel

  with a flock of her gold~hooped, gum~snapping, cute~curled girlfriends

  for a double or group flirt~date instead of alone, becuz as a Chinita,

  she has to keep her head humble & eyes down on da train,

  not wanting to attract the glare of a jealous girl who may want to slice

  her pretty cheek (slashings on da train were all da craze),

  or a lurking subway creep. Sometimes tho, another boy

  with a thick Nautica jacket & a sweet smile would slide

  next to her, say, Hi mami ~ where you going?

  And she’d have to balance friendly flirting

  with a clipped response, strong but not too tough,

  not enuf to be called a stuck-up b*tch or jumped.

  Whoever he was would get a message when she said,

  I’m going to see my man. Sometimes, they’d still escort her,

  in that courteous, crowding way, until they finally gave way

  when hearing Angel calling Oooooh oooooh for her down the street.

  He reads her face in a second, ay ~ telepathic!, and she

  can always tell when mistrust hardens his eyes. She rubs his shoulders

  and runs her fingers slowly down the river of his lean, muscular back.

  Vietnam

  Puerto Rican girls cock hips. Roll eyes. Suck

  teeth. Bump her shoulder hard on his block.

  Once, Vanessa screamed at Hannah, Go back to Vietnam,

  bitch, then turned to Angel and sobbed, Why? Why her? Why not me?

  Angel stood, speechless. For him, it was no better.

  Stone-faced, balding Chinos on the 7 train

  drill holes in his head. Frown. Cock, train

  their mouths like handguns ready to spit at him. Or her.

  Sometimes, Hannah shifts in her hard orange seat.

  Sometimes she throws her leg over his, spits back a stare,

  kisses Angel with rough despair.

  At home, in the shower, they take time

  scrubbing each other’s limbs with care;

  white lather, fingers buried in wet hair.

  Saints

  Angel always wore saints around his wrists

  & neck. A gold cross & gold chain with Jesus,

  escapularios & beads blessed by a Cuban babalao

  given to him by his paralegal cousin Jessie,

  and wooden bracelets painted with various haloed saints,

  he’s blessed with many. He gently slips

  one off his wrist and onto hers…mi amor,

  mi luz, mi reina, he softly sings, makes her feel blessed,

  sacred, sexy, and sweet. She wears

  his gifts with gratitude, changes her attitude

  from shy to strong, from soft to bold.

  When he’s in the mood,

  he traces her shoulder blades with sweet delight,

  she shakes, shedding her scales

  and blossoms into Woman in his light ~

  grateful to be held & serenaded through the nights.

  Hot Chips

  They’re splayed in bed, watching The Simpsons.

  She’s eating a ninety-nine-cent bag of Utz hot chips,

  red dust coating her fingers. He’s unbuckled, hips

  thrust up. Please. He grins. Please suck

  it. No, she snaps. Not now. What

  the fuck. She swats him, but his hand keeps

  seeking hers. One minute. Ten seconds. Her lips

  curl into a grin. Maybe. During a commercial…his luck,

  Cheerios bounce on-screen. She groans, wipes her mouth,

  ducks down. His feet shoot up like arrows

  at the ceiling. Then, he twitches, drools,

  throws her off. Stop, he cries. It burns! Hot…hot…hot chips! Dashes out

  her room, bathes it in the sink. I’ll get the milk, she cries, and runs below.

  Ahhh…He sighs, and dips. She punches him — that’s what you get, fool.

  Adidas Prince

  Underneath it all, Angel is a gentle man,

  there’s a patience in how he courts her,

  kneels on one knee to tie her Adidas laces,

  even in front of his abuela & his little brother,

  Rafi. She blushes, touched, stirred by how he bakes her a chocolate cake

  for her sweet sixteen, clenches a rose between his teeth. Tender lover.

  She loves how his swagger announces his divinity

  at weekend dancehall clubs — he’d hold her hand

  and dance for hours with her at Latin Quarters and the Copa,

  then hit after~hours clubs like two hot whirlwinds of beauty and grace.

  She’d plan elaborate lies to meet him. Addicted

  to da feel of his fingers, soft on her neck, his Juicy Fruit breath.

  He rolls White Owl joints and blows clouds into her mouth

  kissing her, tickling her, licking her, nuzzling her.

  They keep each other happy, safe, a
nd warm.

  (Yes. Here Angel and Hannah ~ nestled in the calm before the storm.)

  Broken Vessels

  After I drop him off, I drive

  home down Cypress Avenue

  to the Interboro Expressway.

  My stomach clenches at a tight turn,

  a sharp fear of losing him

  in this slick, lipglossed city.

  A grainy dusk descends on all

  car roofs, silvering them

  into a black & white movie,

  but I’m no starlet. God. I breathe slow,

  clench the wheel, knowing I’ll stay,

  whether he hurts me, whether we

  skid, flip, lie trapped in a box of flame —

  my heart’s strapped in, belt etched with his name.

  Home

  Mi casa, tu casa, mi vida. Come. Stay with me.

  Cada noche, he sings, Let’s make a home together, ma.

  We grown enough, yo. I want you Here with me.

  Pretty please, mi reina. He bats his thick, lush lashes,

  coquettish as a drag queen, takes her hand. Kisses

  it, daintily, tenderly. How can she resist?

  She giggles. Ay, Angel. I’d Love to, cariño. Pero my parents…

  she sighs…Look, ma. When you ready

  to be free ~ come to me. Estoy aquí. Esperándote.

  They lay curled in bed like two commas

  facing each other, quiet, creating

  a heart, a nest, a space for Home.

  No crazy K-drama,

  stress, or tension, just a warmth, pulsing

  like a rosebud about to bloom. Sí, she says,

  and holds him dearly, like a mama.

  I’m…(migration)

  Maybe flying is in her

  blood and bones ~ great-aunts & cousins

  flying to America to escape the trauma

  of the forgotten Corean war

  that left her mom orphaned at five & changed her family’s fate ~

  burying Celadon vases & twenty-four-karat gold hairpins

  in jars of kimchee, a hive of bustling, displaced cousins & refugees