Book Read Free

Angel & Hannah

Page 4

by Ishle Yi Park

nekked as he winds atop the mattress,

  grinding hips like clockwork —

  sssst!!! He sizzles, chile,

  when a melody hits him

  one Junebug afternoon: a distant reggae tune

  thru someone’s speakers like action, tender satisfaction —

  mmm, Angel, you crazy!

  he closes his eyes & slow-dances himself, magic —

  he brings disco balls, confetti,

  his body’s pent-up sadness,

  unwinding in a serpentine, one-man show. He throws

  off sparks seen from a passing L,

  soul-light gold as a summer sun

  melting down a brownstone window.

  Heat

  friday nite on Hart St!

  hot enuf for kids to loot a corner hydrant

  for its rainbows with josé’s wrench,

  rivering gutters, girls drenched

  in tight tanks with curly hair

  slink by while boys hiss,

  ay Díos, madre mía, Cristo Santo,

  as if saints laved in starry half-light can’t

  compare. out on his stoop, Angel passes

  a strawberry Bacardi breezer to Hannah,

  watches her roll it over her chest,

  collecting beads of nightsweat.

  he breathes slow, thick,

  paws his sneaker against brick

  wall, pushes towards her,

  soft-licks her damp neck.

  Flagtown

  Under a hot night full of

  bullets and flags, we sleep

  in projects etched with

  coarse pencils,

  my red-boned angel with

  twitching haunches, lean-

  flanked — eyelashes lush

  enough to net nightmoths

  to keep them from waking

  the calmdeath of our

  calmbreath —

  as I patrol shadows & silhouettes alone,

  heater hiss like a

  viper coiled to my right — I

  am tiny,

  cold-handed, brave

  — I will cut you open to keep us

  safe.

  Cyclone

  Late July. Angel, a shirtless Pied Piper,

  leads a straggle of kids to the F train —

  Rafi, Kayla, Nicky, Sofia, and Desiree

  cling to poles like a cluster of robust grapes.

  At Coney Island, Angel rubs baby oil on Hannah’s

  gold shoulders. Behind them, the old Cyclone looms.

  Kayla & Rafi bury Angel ~ pat-pat-pat in lumpy sand.

  A plastic cup leaks lightning-water on his torso,

  and Angel erupts, half-man, half-volcano,

  grabs a kid under each arm, two footballs

  he touchdowns in water. Hannah follows — he gives chase,

  she screams, her feet slap saltwater beads into her braids —

  she scampers, laughing past the Ukrainian hot dog lady

  who smokes & grins, mistaking them for family.

  Musk

  Half-wilting in summer heat,

  Hannah insists on silk dresses, pink barrettes.

  Part of her is young, green, vain,

  causes boys to drop jaw, whistle, swivel.

  She’s drunk off her own scent.

  Angel’s a pirate-paladin ~

  pure, deadly chivalrous. When Sitta jeers

  a nasty slur on the side,

  Angel flicks a box cutter for her honor,

  ready to kill, gut, die. Hannah reins him

  in ~ No, not tonight, babybaby.

  Please. He’s not worth it.

  But you are, Angel says. She smells his sweat.

  She’s damp, her panties wet.

  At night, she kisses his temples,

  drinks his musk, as he takes her.

  Again & again.

  Sunsets, Songs, Pearls

  Mmmm ~ slow down all the moments

  she has his head to her chest at sunset,

  nursing him, mothering him, consoling him, stroking his fade

  trying to keep him from killing himself slowly, fading away

  into grief or pipes or blunts or beers or rage —

  she holds him, and he holds her. Babysoft tender.

  Stroke each other’s hair like bold kids,

  like first ~ time lovers.

  Angel, ay ~ he loves to sing into her ears!

  His high falsetto crooning Marc Anthony

  or Jerry Rivera classics by her baby hair ~ “aquel viejo

  motel” ~ or “cara de niño, con alma de hombre” ~ they hold

  each other precious as gold Tahitian pearls

  in a world that doesn’t value their true worth.

  Cocolivio

  cocolivio one two three

  one two three one two three!

  how easy it used to be to fling

  your arms round a pretty

  young thing, squeeze tight as

  a balloon right

  before popping, no breath,

  just you & her, hot, panting,

  other kids blown like

  dandelion dust

  over tufts of dry grass

  till googie’s mom window-yells,

  angelito — déjala! cuídate!

  and you let go, run free — a

  car barely misses you

  gunning Hart Street —

  Running

  Running! Christ, he gets stopped for running down

  Wyckoff Avenue at 4:00 a.m.

  by undercover cops who shove him,

  spread him, grab his balls, pat him down

  against brick. Officer Sanchez frowns

  while Angel shakes his head and says,

  I’m late for work, man. I load trucks at Boar’s Head,

  near Jones Street. They let him go, the sound

  of tires slick against wet concrete,

  their sirens stupidly wailing. He gets

  to work — but too late. They let him go. He trudges

  home. Slow. Kicks a soaked garbage bag. Spent.

  Rain pelts him in hard sheets. Sleepless,

  jobless, again. Four days left to pay this month’s rent.

  Abuela

  First time Angel takes Hannah

  to his abuela’s, Hannah knows

  it’s special, cuz he ironed

  a button-down shirt & Polo khakis.

  They step light into Paloma’s fourth-floor walk-up.

  Hannah sees glass beads, chipped ceramic

  Jesuses, a plastic-covered sofa, blue gurgles

  from a dank aquarium. Mira,

  says Paloma. Ven acá. Hola,

  señora, Hannah tries. Ay!

  Hablas español!

  Paloma’s smile widens

  to flash gold,

  two crescent-moon eyes.

  Cocho

  Cocho burns buildings. His lazy eye

  is red. His laughter, metallic.

  Hannah listens as Angel’s cousin brags —

  how he doused a tire, rolled it into Boar’s Head,

  where trucks dock at night — a scratched-out

  section of Bushwick, no lucky numbers, railroad track eaten

  by asphalt. Hiss of lighter fluid. Fume. All dead beef burning —

  it maddens the sky with rank smoke.

  All windows south of Williamsburg
slam shut.

  Hannah nightmares: she’s a blackbird

  over a burning Brooklyn, a copse of tenements

  licked in blazes…below, Angel, a cheetah

  singed in flame…he looks up. Bares fang —

  she caws…this far, he can’t hear her cry his name —

  No.

  Why? Why not? I can’t. I can’t do it

  anymore, Angel, it’s not glamorous,

  not sexy, not cool.

  To bolt outta bed 4:20 in the morning

  cuz a gunshot or a junkie stumbling

  on our fire escape, a hand trying to unlock our

  bedroom window…no. No more madness. I can’t

  breathe, can’t relax, can’t think!

  Don’t feel safe. We all want outta

  this place, we all want

  Grace. It’s not you. Baby.

  It’s not me.

  It’s the city.

  Look.

  Please.

  Look at me.

  Bushwick

  Every part of Brooklyn has a motto ~

  Do or die, Bed-Stuy; Brownsville, Never

  run, never will ~ but here, Buuuushwiick,

  stretched long as an echo or a prayer or a dream

  in nightclubs like a low hum ~ to counter bullet-

  like chants of L.E.S.! L.E.S.! Bushwick is my heart

  — this little place across da bridge, navigate

  backstreets & deserted alleys & run

  smack into her ~ she slaps you awake with her

  sass. Gold-hooped lindas and brass-knuckled boys,

  Latin Kings & Nietas with gold teeth and holy beads,

  I know these blocks ~ these blocks own me. I

  can walk down any street, duck into a doorway,

  get fed a hot plate, get laid, get high, get dry.

  Bushwick. A state of mind. Que bonita bandera,

  boricua ~ Puerto Rican flags draped on rusted

  fire escapes rustle like stars do all night

  in Aibonito, Abuela says, trying to dance & be seen

  thru las palmas, and some old hero named

  José Martí winks, nailed to a wooden beam

  in Tío’s makeshift candy store, at the sad, jangly

  chords of the tiburón Pedro

  (not Navaja) crooning jíbaro cantos on Lucky’s

  busted guitar, borracho, Abuela shaking her metal

  maraca, Titi Lilo ululating to shake spirits

  out da rafters, bare bulb dangling, clapping

  to a homemade, Taíno-tainted, conquistador-

  stained music that crescent-moons abuela’s eyes.

  Lazy Sunday. Paloma remembers la isla to Hannah

  in her laced-up formica kitchen,

  draining sweet Bustelo coffee thru

  that nylon sock, wiping hands on her blue apron.

  How in Aibonito, Abuelo used to hack cocos

  on her front step with a machete

  so her nietos could drink sweet-water

  dulce, tan dulce, straight from its brown cup

  (before he left, the cabrón, she laughs),

  and not far away, Las Tetas de Cayey, lush

  mountains dubbed such cuz

  they swell like two round

  breasts ~ ay, men, Paloma sighs.

  Can’t they think of anything else?

  Jesus

  Too many Jesuses. Angel’s getting restless —

  left leg shaking, hunched over joystick.

  Jesus on the calendar, glowing Jesus on the wall, mini-Jesus

  decked out in robes & cane, herding sheep on top of the dusty tv. Let’s

  go. Let’s be out, ma. He catches Hannah

  on her way to the bathroom. Why? She sucks her teeth,

  motions out the barred window ~ Just

  cuz. She groans. She knows. Blue sky. Wind. He’s a

  pent-up lion, needs to prowl

  his streets, stalk territory, be game,

  be prey, be chased, give chase. Be live. Be wild.

  But Hannah likes the cluster of saints

  on shelves, old lace tablecloths, warm~gold

  light, and most of all, Paloma’s winking smile.

  Love 101

  These are the ways you love a man, in the details

  ~ cooking his eggs well done,

  but not burnt, moving his radio to the shower

  cuz you know he likes his Hot 97 in the

  morning, drying your feet before stepping out the tub

  cuz he can’t stand a wet floor, letting him hold open

  all doors, walk on the sidewalk facing street for some

  chivalry that says, you “ain’t for sale,” dealing with phone bills

  & unopened junk mail, kissing slow, from crown to

  toes, all 126 of his freckles, his 22 scars, telling him,

  ~ I love you, under-the-star-you ~ never teasing

  his too-early-to-be-balding temples, popping his pimples,

  watching his eyelids shift in sleep,

  moving closer, like you’re his, for all Time, to keep.

  Cocaine & Cheeseburgers

  Cocaine or cheeseburgers…

  Hannah laughs watching Angel half-nelson Ariel

  & spray him with a Super Soaker between

  customers in the midday lull. She tries math —

  one week flipping burgers is 40 hours

  5 bucks an hour x 40 is 200

  minus taxes = 130 something…he could rake

  that in, no sweat, hangin on Crescent, slinging bundles one

  Tuesday, no managers, no egos, funny hats, just his tíos,

  and Alma gets fed, gets quarters for loosies,

  and Angel’s left enough for tokens, movies,

  weed, & her late-night cab rides to Queens. She sighs

  as she watches him sell another sly handshake.

  …how can you beat that and argue for Mickey D’s?

  Hunger

  After working on an empty stomach,

  Angel looks forward to Tuesday nights

  when King palms him his jackpot —

  a bouquet of twenties rippling

  in a soft, green fan ~ plllrrr.

  It bulges, making him twice the man.

  For seven days, he’s a Puerto Rican Santa ~

  medicina para Alma, a Key Food bag stuffed

  with Oscar Mayer turkey meat, Wonder bread, munchies,

  a Game Boy for Rafi, high-top Reeboks for Soli…

  Okay, maybe not Santa…

  He squints at a sailboat under the bridge,

  imagines old man Jesus with his seven loaves, arms

  outstretched, as if he could feed them all.

  Rafi

  8:00 p.m. Angel grabs Rafi midrun in Freeze Tag,

  under the silhouette of Howard Housing’s projects

  in ghost-dusk. You take your pills? No. Angel frowns. Go get them.

  Rafi dashes up the concrete stairwell.

  Some minutes later, he emerges: a kid,

  untethered and free playing tag.

  But Angel knows what lurks under car hulls,

  Wolverine-clawed, waiting to snatch Rafi by his ankles

  and drag him as prey into its lair. Angel stands guard,

  hawk over nest, guarding his brother-prince.

  After tag, he buys Rafi a ham sandwich and hot

  chocolate at the bodega. And a sour apple Blow Pop for fifteen
cents.

  No, he thinks. You can’t take him yet. Not without a fight.

  I still need him, this side of the light.

  Paloma

  Paloma’s apartment is a way station for lost angels

  tucked deep in Brownsville’s Howard Housing’s projects.

  He slips in with dawn, ignores the little Jesuses

  praying on sills, dead cousins stiff in army suits,

  or pretty-in-pink tías framed on wooden walls.

  Adobo steams the kitchen as Paloma stirs.

  Paloma, his abuela, always readying

  a hot plate for a hungry mouth, tucking her own griefs

  into her netted bun. Angel shifts on the plastic-covered couch.

  Stares out the barred window.

  Plays Nintendo with Rafi till humid night falls. As he grabs his keys,

  he asks Paloma with an outstretched hand, Can you bless me?

  She kisses his forehead, gives him a bendición, mijo, instead of money.

  Nintendo

  Rafi hunches forward,

  murders buttons. His teeth bite

  his lower lip, he snarls as he swings

  Bowser 360 degrees into an abyss, green-

  fire burning his glasses, he cheers, Yes! I

  beat him!

  Even the tv sings mechanical praise

  and crowns him…Before I go

  to the next level, he says, inhaling deep.

  He cracks his boyknuckles and grins.

  Hannah grins back, tousles his hair. Good

  luck, Rafi, she says. Yeah. I need it. He smirks.

  She winces. Outside, sunlight dies

  slow while his wild sixteen-bit dream begins ~

  she sits back to watch Rafi fight his dragon

  with flicks of his small joystick.

  Paloma’s Prayer

  Blessed be my daughter, Alma de Jesus, mother of Angel,

  Soledad, y Rafael…rest in peace, Scarface Willy,

  once married to Angel’s second cousin Jessie

  who made the block’s best pernil,

  y por favor, disculpe a Tío Rafael,

  un alcohólico y former Latin King released

  from Rikers only two weeks before he gave el SIDA

 

‹ Prev