Can you chill?
On the Walk to the Train
I call Caridad.
And she answers singing “Happy Birthday,”
but cuts herself off early.
“What’s wrong, Xio? Are you crying?”
All I said was “Hey.”
But she knows by my voice
my world is on fire.
I take a breath.
She tells me to come over.
She tells me she’ll meet me.
She asks me what I need.
“Check on Twin.
Make sure he’s okay.
I just need to breathe.
I just need to leave.”
There’s a long pause.
And I can imagine her nodding
through the phone.
“I’m here for you.
You’ll figure it out.”
And that’s enough.
The Ride
The train stops and starts
like an old woman with a bad cough.
But I feel more than jumbled
when I walk on, so a halting train
doesn’t faze me at all.
When I get off on 168th
it’s started snowing softly.
I turn my face up into the wetness.
I pretend this is like a movie
where the sky offers healing.
But it only makes me colder.
I stand there waiting.
Knowing he said he would come.
Believing he will.
A tingle on my neck
is the only clue I have
and then I smell him,
his cologne a cloud
of so many memories
I didn’t even know we’d made.
Aman’s fingers reach
for my hand but he’s silent.
I keep my face open to the sky.
I squeeze his hand in mine.
No Turning Back
Aman asks me questions
but I barely hear any of them.
The only thing I feel
is the warmth of his fingers.
We walk nowhere for a while.
Until I notice: Aman is shivering.
I finally look at him.
Really look at him.
His hair is wet, his eyelashes
have droplets from the snow,
and he is wearing nothing
but a thin hoodie.
I can see his bare ankles below his sweats—
he must have rushed out without putting on socks.
I tug on his hand, and whisper against his cold cheek:
“You’re cold. Let’s get out of the cold.
You live near here, right?”
And although he raises both his perfect eyebrows
there is nothing left to say.
Taking Care
The long way up five flights of stairs
I have all the silence and time to think.
I know that Aman’s father works nights.
That at night Aman listens to music and does homework.
And I almost laugh.
All the time we were together and happy I avoided coming here.
And now that I’m nothing but a hot mess
I push my way into his home.
His couch is soft. Brown and cushiony.
No plastic covering like mine.
I don’t take my coat off. Or my backpack.
I just lean my head back and close my eyes.
I can hear Aman moving around me.
A table leg scrapes against the hardwood floor.
The refrigerator door opens and closes softly.
Then music playing.
But not J. Cole like I expected.
Not hip-hop at all.
Instead, it’s bass strings and soft steel drums.
Soca, I think, but slow and soothing.
When Aman tugs on my boots, I finally open my eyes.
And he is bending over my feet.
Staring at my mismatched socks.
Then he’s sitting beside me.
And I finally begin to feel warm.
He doesn’t ask what happened.
But the question floats like a blimp across the arch of his brows.
And so, I tell him all of my poems,
my words, my thoughts, the only place
I have ever been my whole self,
are a pile of ashes.
And smoke must still be lodged in my chest,
because it hurts so much when I’m done speaking.
Aman doesn’t say a word;
he just pulls me to him.
In Aman’s Arms
InAman’sarmsIfeel
warm.
InAman’sarmsIfeel
safe.
InAman’sarmshe
apologizes.
InAman’s arms I
apologize.
InAman’sarmsIwant
to forget.
InAman’sarmsmy
mouth finds his.
InAman’sarmsmy
hands touch skin.
InAman’sarmsmy shirt
comes off.
InAman’sarmsIam
shy for a moment.
InAman’sarmsIam
beautifulbeautiful
beautiful.
InAman’sarmsIfeel
beautiful.
InAman’s armsmy
jeans unsnap.
InAman’sarmsI show
myself.
InAman’sarms naked
skin rubs against mine.
InAman’sarms kisses
and kisses. My neck and ear.
InAman’sarmsfingers
touch my breasts.
InAman’sarms Istop
breathing.
InAman’sarmsI feel
good. So good.
And I Also Know
We have to stop.
Because now we’re lying on the couch
and he’s on top of me.
And his kisses feel so good,
everything feels so good.
But I also feel him pressed against me.
The part of him that’s hard.
That’s still an unanswered question
I don’t have a response for.
And when his hand brushes my thigh
and then moves up—
I know why island people cliff dive.
Why they jump to feel free, to fly,
and how they must panic for a moment
when the ocean rushes toward them.
I stop his hand. I pull my face from his kiss.
He is breathing hard. He is still kissing me hard.
He is still bumping up against me. Hard.
“We have to stop.”
Tangled
Sometimes I wear these really long three-strand necklaces.
And I love how they look. Like a spiderweb of fake gold.
But they’re the worst to put away.
The next time I try to wear them they’re a tangled knot.
No beginning, no end, just snag after snag.
That’s how I feel the moment I ask Aman to back up.
Like a big tangle. I feel: guilty, because he looks so
frustrated. I feel: hot and wanting. I feel: like crying
because everything is so mixed up. And I feel
the panic slowly die, because I can think.
I just need a moment, things to slow down,
so I can undo the knots inside me.
The Next Move
I wait for him to call me all the names
I know girls get called in this moment.
I sit up and hold my bra against my chest
with no memory of how I became undone.
When his fingers brush against my spine
my whole body stiffens. Waiting.
But he only pulls my straps up and
snaps my bra closed. Hands me my T-shirt.
We are silent as I get dressed.
&nbs
p; I wait for him to hand me my boots.
To point me toward the door.
I know this is how it works. You put out or you get out.
So I am surprised when instead of my boots
Aman hands me his own T-shirt,
and when I look at him confused
he takes it back and uses the sleeve
to wipe the tears sprinting down my cheek.
There Are Words
That need to be said
but we don’t say any of them.
We watch YouTube highlights of the Winter Games.
I help Aman fry eggs and sweet plantains.
I sip a Malta. Aman drinks a bottle
of his father’s Carib beer.
Somewhere in New York City it is late.
But in Aman’s living room time has stopped.
I’m dozing off, with the lights dark
and the buzz of the computer.
With Aman’s soft breathing in my ear,
I think of all the firsts I’ve given to this day,
and all the ones I chose to keep.
And this is a better thought
than the one that wants to break through
because in the back of my head I know
today I’ve made decisions
I will never be able to undo.
Wednesday, January 9
Facing It
When I walk into first-period English
Ms. Galiano takes one look at me
and stands up from her desk, gestures me outside.
Aman offered me one of his T-shirts,
but my boobs pulled it too tight across my chest
and so I’m wearing the same outfit as yesterday.
And by the way she looks at me
I know that Ms. Galiano knows it.
But she doesn’t mention clothes;
she says she called my house.
That when I ran out of poetry club she got concerned,
got the number from the school directory,
that she spoke to my father, who sounded frantic,
that my whole family was wondering where I was.
She asks me if I’ve called them.
She asks me what’s going on.
And my chest is heaving.
Because I don’t know what to tell her.
She puts a soft hand on my arm
and I look into the face of a woman
not much older than me,
a woman with a Spanish last name,
who loves books and poetry,
who I notice for the first time is pretty,
who has a soft voice and called my house
because she was worried
and the words are out before I know it:
confirmation, lying about poetry, the rice,
the book burning, leaving the house, sleeping at Aman’s.
My face burns hot, and the words are too fast,
and I wonder again and again why I’m saying them,
and if people are looking; but I can’t seem to stop
all the words that I’ve held clenched tight,
and then I say words I’ve never even known I’ve thought:
“I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.”
And I’m saying them against Ms. Galiano’s small frame,
her slim arms around me as she hugs me tight.
As she tells me over and over:
“Just breathe. Just breathe.
It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.”
“You Don’t Have to Do Anything You Don’t Want to Do.”
And so I take a breath
I didn’t realize I needed to take.
When has anyone ever said those words to me?
Maybe only Aman, who’s never forced me
to smoke, or kiss, or anything.
But everyone else just wants me to do:
Mami wants me to be her proper young lady.
Papi wants me to be ignorable and silent.
Twin and Caridad want me to be good so I don’t attract
attention.
God just wants me to behave so I can earn being alive.
And what about me? What about Xiomara?
When has anyone ever told me
I had the right to stop it all
without my knuckles, or my anger,
with just some simple words.
“But you do have to talk to your mom.
Really talk to her. And you do need to figure out
how to make a relationship with her work.”
What I Say to Ms. Galiano After She Passes Me a Kleenex
Okay.
Going Home
Is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
All day I’ve been unfocused. Unsure of what I need to do.
Of how to do it. Hands trembling at the thought
of what will happen when I walk through the front door.
Because my mother’s ears are soundproof when it comes to me.
The only one she ever listens to is God.
During lunch, Isabelle doesn’t ask what happened,
she just hands me her bag of Doritos.
After bio, Aman rubs my shaking hands as we walk out the door.
His gentle hold warms me up.
During last period, Ms. Galiano comes to my math classroom
and gives me a note with her personal cell number in case I need to talk to her later.
When I step out of school, Aman’s hand in mine,
both Caridad and Twin are standing at the front gate.
And although none of them can face Mami for me,
I know I’m not alone.And I finally know who might help.
Aman, Twin, and Caridad
I introduce Aman to Twin and Caridad
before we all walk to the train station.
I want to ask Twin what happened
after I left last night.
But I don’t want to know.
I can tell by how tired he looks
that whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
No one says anything for a long time.
Caridad squeezes my hand and tells me to call her.
Aman kisses my forehead and tells me “we gon’ be all right.”
When Twin catches me looking at him
he gives me a soft smile.
And then his eyes begin to water.
On that rocking train, we hug and rock, too.
Divine Intervention
I make a stop
before going home.
Because I know
assistance comes
in mysterious ways
and I’m going to need
all the help I can get.
Homecoming
At the apartment door, I slide the key in,
but don’t unlock.
I can hear both people behind me breathing.
Mami might not be home yet.
I still have time to gather my thoughts.
To get my life together.
But when I open the door
she is there. Standing in the kitchen,
wringing a dishrag. Her eyes are red.
And she looks small, so small.
Twin gives my shoulder a squeeze
and moves behind me.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders.
“Mami, we need to talk.
And I think we need help to do it.”
I step aside and let Father Sean cram into the kitchen.
He reaches out a hand to my mother: “Altagracia.”
And this woman I’ve feared,
this woman who has been both mother and monster,
the biggest sun in my sky—
bright, blinding, burning me to the wick—
she hunches her shoulders and begins to sob.
Silent, silent crying that shakes her whole body.
And I am stuck, and still.
Before I go to her.
My Mother and I
Might
never be friends.
Will never shop for a prom dress together
and paint designs on each other’s nails.
My mother and I
might never learn
how to give and accept
an apology from the other.
We might be too much
the same mirror.
But our arms can do
what our words can’t just now.
Our arms can reach.
Can hug tight.
Can teach us
to remember each other.
That love can be a band:
tears if you pull it too hard,
but also flexible enough
to stretch around the most chaotic mass.
My mother does not say she is sorry.
That she loves me.
And I hope one day for the words,
but for now, her strong pat on my back,
her hand through my hair,
this small moment of soft.
Is enough.
Thursday, January 24
Stronger
In bio we learn about erosion.
About how over time a small stream of water
falling down the same rock face for centuries
can break an entire mountain apart
little bit by little bit.
For the next couple of weeks,
my mother and I work to break down
some of the things that have built up between us.
We meet with Father Sean once a week
and talk. Sometimes about each other.
Sometimes just about our days.
My mother starts teaching Communion classes,
and she seems happier than I’ve ever seen her.
The little kids make her smile, she gets excited
over teaching certain passages, and I remember
it used to be like that with me once.
It’s a sweet memory made sweeter when
at the third session with Father Sean,
she gives me my name bracelet back,
the gold melded where it’d been broken, but still whole.
Sometimes Twin and Papi come to the sessions
with Father Sean. Twin wiggles uncomfortably
in his chair. I know there’s a lot he doesn’t say.
But I hope, one day, he will be able to say it.
Papi, surprisingly, loves to talk. And once he gets going
he makes all of us laugh, and when we are talking about him
The Poet X Page 13