to shy, long-haired Solibel,
who lives across the stairwell
from Angel’s titi Bella;
bendita, they say she cries at night, well
after her three boys be sleeping,
God, watch over her please, as well
as Alma’s baby, my last grandson, Rafi.
Secret (Hannah)
A pain so big I can barely understand it.
Talk with Angel? Yeah right.
But Rafi. Oh Rafi.
No turning back now. How? Once his fingers
locked round my neck & I galloped
him down Crescent, his giggles bubbling like soda pop,
once he made me peanut-buttered toast,
called me BananaFanaMomanaHannah, that’s it.
I’m locked in. Not pity anymore,
or tenderness, it’s too close,
this pain breaks me like old wishes.
He’s my brother now too. And he’s got a secret
tucked in his redblood cells and it hurts
to look at a kid & think about Death…
it hurts cuz his hair sticks up funny when he scratches it, cuz
he burps the McDonald’s theme song, battles dragons, opens
bodega doors for you like a little prince…it’s disgusting
to look at a kid & think about his expiration date. You want to vomit.
And you want him to never vomit,
wanna give him every Marvel comic, every Game Boy,
every small happiness, wanna break Joey’s arm for sucker-punching him,
but you gotta let him fall & fight,
hurt & cry & you must honor his plight,
cuz he doesn’t wanna be babied,
he wants to Live.
So, you let him run, wild,
but corner-eye-spy him, less than a block away,
play older sis for a day.
Angel, his eyes
go soft when he looks at Rafi,
even tho he talks hard like an older brother should.
Nah, girl, we never talk about it — what is there to say?
My little brother got AIDS? No word could change a thing…
he was born with it, he’ll die with it, only question, when…
only solution, make his days as fun & gentle as we can…
and Rafi’s so cute, ma, when he skips between us,
he says, Banana Hannah, Angel — can you fly me?
Please? Fly me! So, we gotta grab his hands and swing him
like a crescent moon, his laughter pealing,
again, again! We gotta lift him for two blocks
till our arms get sore, even when he wants
more, more, more!
So we gotta try ~ we fly him
till he almost grows wings, nena. Ay.
That kid makes my heart sing.
Buggin’
Ooh! Youse is kissing! Rafi shrieks, when
Hannah & Angel flop in bed. He peers up close,
watching from inches away.
Are you guys gonna get married?
Yes, Angel says, now go away.
Rafi disappears, comes back hauling
a waist-high mirror — Look at ya’ll! Look!
He scrunches his face and moans…
two peanut butter jelly sammiches
sit messy on the dresser. Breakfast! Rafi grins.
I made it myself. Hannah takes a bite and kisses him.
Thank you, baby, she says. You’re so sweet…Nah,
I’m a bug…I’m buggin’, he says,
strut ~ hopping into the kitchen.
Monster
El SIDA. Angel calls it the monster under his breath.
At night, it spiders windows with a hammer.
Snatches Tío Demas, two cousins, his mother
from bed. Sucks air out their mouths, blows death
in ~ a grotesque kiss. Thins cheeks to rice paper.
A white moss crystallizes lips. Sores sprout: blossoms.
Wrist-veins, green stems.
Worst, it leaves a mother too thin to give one last blessing
to a devastated son.
Sometimes a man needs
to be held, no questions.
Hannah rubs his lower back in circles.
Her eyes soak in his slump.
I’ll protect you, she wants to say, but can’t.
Rafi’s Voice
When I die I don’t want to be buried
in dirt cuz I saw a kitten last week
dead behind the school fence —
and he had bugs and maggots all crawling
out of his ear into his eye —
white, tiny, eating him from the inside.
When I die, Paloma, put me in a box
and burn me in a fire like I seen on Channel 13 —
then take all my smoke and dirt,
all the small handfuls of me,
and climb the Empire State, Paloma —
climb it and throw me in the wind
so I can fly like those pigeons
who black the sky with their wings
Alma’s Voice
She’s a keeper, I told Angelito, cuz the way
She play with Rafi, my littlest angel,
the way she laughs with him all day & doesn’t tire
of his constant bothering and games.
She ain’t a wild chile like me —
that’s plain to see. He needs a good girl
in this too-tough world. One who will
treat him like gold. And I see —
the little things they do to please
each other — the sweets, the door openings,
the kisses and back rubs and holding hands —
it’s cute. Even innocent looking to me. I like it.
He needs more sugar in his life. I pray one day,
they make a baby & he makes her his wifey.
S.O.S.
When does their boat tip over?
What swells cause them to lurch,
turn sick inside, deep in da thick of it?
Perhaps when she saw Angel’s eyes roll back
in his head the first time, as he dozed off
in front of her ~ slow motion, sweet,
heartbreaking. His dad was a junkie,
strung out on that sleepy killa
and he left Angel’s mom. Sometimes at night,
Angel would take flight, while she was aroused, alive,
awake, with makeup perfect, baby ~ hair gelled,
present & ready for Love ~ he left her bereft, ignored, unwrapped,
dozing in hard drugs, caught in a generational despair
& an addict’s affair far deeper than she could bear.
What kind of papi can he be, when half the time, he’s a zombie?
So quickly it erodes, her sandcastle fairy ~ tale fantasy.
Sick
They don’t hear rivers running through walls anymore.
Stiff legs with curled toes, three
stick bodies rubbing for fire, for heat.
The landlord’s ignored all seven complaints she
hurled into his blinking machine. Rafi
sleeps between them like a squirrel nestled in
an oak’s hollow heart. Lately he coughs,
sneezes up green phlegm. His pale skin greens; he’s small
and dying. Hannah and Angel feel a thin-edged pain
slice through them like razor cuts.
Crying, Hannah carries him piggyback again
to Wyckoff’s emergency room. Rafi breathes
through a tube. Angel seethes.
Visiting hours over, but he refuses to leave.
Toothache
This time, it’s for Angel. She holds his limp head and cradles him
in the sick-lit, moaning room. It’s aiight, she soothes,
thumbing pages over his head. Romeo, that spoiled prince —
he had it easy, she fumes.
He had the luxury of attending masquerades, engaging in sword play —
he never had to beg to fix a swollen tooth
at Wyckoff’s emergency room because he
had no Medicaid. She lays Angel’s throbbing cheek on her shoulder.
Blue plastic seats
steal any ideas of comfort. All he had to worry about — the plain miseries
of love, she thinks. She stashes her schoolbook.
Tousles Angel’s hair, watches Days of Our Lives on a hanging tv.
Soledad
Hannah’s in the bathroom, fixing her curls for the movies
when the cordless phone rings. Soledad whispers,
You there? Hannah sits at the tub’s edge. Wassup?
He came over to chill, listen to the radio, then…
he shoved my face in the pillow, boots still
on, and took me from behind, the way
I never did it. She sobs. Bastard. Baby Daddy.
He said, it’s mine. It’s mine. Hannah grips the chill
sink ledge to keep from trembling. Ay, Soli,
she says. Soli Soli Soli.
No one should ever do that to you, baby. He had no right…
So I’m back on the shit. Soli cuts her off. I had to hit the pipe.
Silence. He’s coming — I’m out. Click.
Hannah’s world shrinks: a knot of black, tangled hair down the sink.
Girls’ Night
They lounge around a plastic kitchen table, legs splayed
in humid heat — Hannah, Bella, Rosie, Soledad, Antoinette.
After twelve Coronas with limes stuffed down sweaty necks, the girls let
loose: about Louie shoving the barrel of a silver .380
down Rosie’s throat, all fucked up on a cocktail of coke & weed,
how Loco bolted Suhayla into her bedroom, barring her
from Bushwick Night School. Hannah remembers
when she first met Loco, how he bragged about isotopes, his GED.
Bella confesses Duke once dragged her by her braids down Jefferson Street,
Soli, of getting her head pinned to concrete with Craze’s new Nike sneaker.
Hannah winces. Visions of butterflies pinned to flatboard, feebly
pulsing rubbed-off wings. Suddenly, she feels vulnerable, weaker,
an orange rind split with a sharp nail.
Outside Bella’s propped-open window, a bottle shatters into hail.
Milagros
Of all Angel’s titas she meets, Hannah is most
spellbound by Milagros ~ Jessie’s mom ~
a tough downtown lawyer by day, da bomb
bella boricua by night ~ with fly hot~pink boas
and thick black liner, who comes around once
in a blue, with her stunning morena girlfriend Destiny ~
they dance in Village balls & discos & live so wonderfully
free ~ it seems ~ free from boys who jail & hurt & insult with blunt
words & fists ~ they spread glitter & joy & tears & magic
when they come around, bring Barbie dolls for kids
& six-packs of Coronas to loosen up their stressed~out parents ~
they don’t stick around for any drama, honey, just long enough to Bless ~
to make Hannah dream another kind of life ~
filled with more freedom, laughter, more fierce joy & happiness.
Turn your eyes from me,
they overwhelm me.
~ Song of Songs
III.
Otoño
Fall
And fleckéd darkness like a drunkard reels
down Hart Street, while a long-fingered Winter steals
Alma’s last silvery gasp — so Angel’s left a motherless child with no path —
And you, dear Reader, in your loving home,
have you ever felt so deer-wounded or alone?
Like a stone leaping into the sea…
He’s locked in, but he wants to break free!
For a spell, she grew a little angel in her womb,
but Gotham wasn’t ready for a gift so sweet
& they didn’t have money to make ends meet.
So hopeless, she gives up her & Angel’s baby
& prays for her God to forgive her daily.
She finds out he cheated; she’s left disenchanted,
so he tattoos her name on his arm, not to be lonely, or stranded
but branded for eternity — his lover’s own cherished thing…
they cling to each other, fear what nights may bring…
Glow (Hannah)
My whole body’s tingling down to my
fingers. Something in my tummy warm &
lovely as a foal, a light I can barely
contain…I feel…rapturous?
Water breaking through a vase. Chaos ~ a dancing star in me!
My belly, housing hot energy
sparked by sunsets, sad eyes, kisses…a living
thing made by Love. How miraculous? I veer
away from cars, smog, stop in to a fancy-lit
café on Tenth Street, craving
fresh lemon slices.
I wanna guard myself from city ~ evils — my body is wiser than me.
Young lioness, ready to rip apart
any beast. Is this what it feels like? Aigu, uma, is this how you glowed?
Was this private motherlove enough? This quiet-body bliss?
Tell me. What should I do? I bite my lip, soak blood in my napkin.
Job Hunt
Forty-second Street. Home of the hand-pocket-hustle,
always a help-wanted sign strung on a smudged glass window.
Angel enters the low-roofed BBQ joint, Hannah in
tow behind, into a cigar-stained musk. Lamps frayed
with red tassels. He asks for an application; fills
it out at the bar table. A blank
look on his face. He fills in spaces slow as dust; she flanks
his side, hisses correct spellings. One waitress trips. She
spills her mug of dark ale watching them cheat,
fidget, stall. His right hand stutters d’s into b’s.
Hannah hisses, Stupid.
In ten minutes, Angel rips up his splotched paper. Exits.
She trails behind, wordless. They hail a taxi.
Inside, she sobs, loud. He cries, soundless.
Hunger
he’s so hungry he can’t even think
a bag of chips for breakfast and only if he’s lucky
angie will fix him
a plate of leftover pernil but it’s chips
pizza most days plus a few sniffs
of that good old yeyo tired n broke
wired n broke drinking coke
sniffin coke he’s sick of it ready to quit but shit
one day a week is not enough cuz
by monday he’s down to quarter waters
f
rom jaquelina’s so angel dreams
of barbecued baby back ribs ordered at charlies
or a rough slab of twelve-oz steak
tender not tough
Uma (Hannah)
I’m curled in bed, clutching a pillow,
stomach rippling. Nothing in the fridge
’cept peanut butter & beer. All of a sudden,
hunger collapses me.
Wanna week at home, uma’s galbi chim,
seven plates of banchan, spinach, meluchi,
kimchee, kochujang, cucumbers, salmon head,
talking to her barefoot in the kitchen
while the fan chops smoke into ribbons,
or after, when I’m full, oily, bloated,
when I nest my palms over my gut & lull.
Rest like a hammock swing
under fading light before apa
comes home wheezing curses,
before afternoon sours like old kimchee.
Oh uma, I miss you uma-ing me.
Beni
Hannah yells at Angel
in front of Sady’s brownstone
steps. They’re shaded by maples,
but her voice carries. Beni
walks towards them, she clams up.
Ice flows in her veins.
Yo, what’s the problem? he drawls.
I hear your mouth two blocks
away, up Harman.
It’s him, she spits,
hands attacking air,
but Beni warns, Chill, chill.
Angel’s a man, not a kid,
ma. Watch how you talk to him.
Apa
Watch how you talk to him ~
Beni’s words ring in her
hours later like a morning alarm ~
didn’t she hiss the same thing
once to her father? Watch
how you talk to my uma, each word
a dagger…she brushes her teeth, enveloped
in quiet. Angel sidesteps as she enters the bedroom,
filling it with her buzz.
After all those years,
she thinks,
Angel & Hannah Page 5