The Poet X - Elizabeth Acevedo Page 0,10

my bubble butt in the mirror.

Part II

And the Word

Was Made Flesh

Smoke Parks

Because I wouldn’t go to his house

(not that he asked me to!),

we both know that our secret friendship

can take place only in public.

Every Friday our school has a half day for professional development,

and today Aman and I shuffle to the smoke park nearby.

I’ve never smoked weed,

but I think Aman does sometimes after school;

I smell it on his sweater, and know the crowd he chills with.

But today the park is ours

and we sit on a bench with more

than our forearms “accidentally” rubbing.

His fingers brush against my face

as he places one of his earbuds in for me.

I can smell his cologne

and I want to lean in but I’m

afraid he’ll notice I’m sniffing him.

For a moment, the only thing I can hear

is my own heart loudly pumping

in my ears.

I close my eyes and let myself

find in music what I’ve always searched for:

a way away.

After an hour, when the album clicks off

and Aman tugs on my hand to pull me up from the bench

I hold on. Link my fingers with his for just a moment.

And walk to the train feeling truly thankful

that this city has so many people to hide me.

I Decided a Long Time Ago

Twin is the only boy I will ever love.

I don’t want a converted man-whore like my father

so the whole block talks about my family and me.

I don’t want a pretty boy,

or a superstar athlete, more in love with himself

than anyone else.

I wouldn’t even date a boy like Twin,

thinking people are inherently good,

always seeing the best in them.

But I have to love Twin.

Not just because we’re blood, but because

he’s the best boy I know.

He is also the worst twin in the world.

Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin

He looks nothing like me.

He’s small. Scrawny.

Straight-up scarecrow skinny.

(I must have bullied him in Mami’s belly

because it’s clear I stole all the nutrients.)

He wears glasses because he’s afraid

of poking an eye out by using contacts.

He doesn’t even try to look cool, or match.

He is, in fact, the worst Dominican:

doesn’t dance, his eyebrows connect slightly,

he rarely gets a shape-up, and he’d rather read

than watch baseball. And he hates to fight.

Didn’t even wrestle with me when we were little.

I’ve gotten into too many shove matches

trying to make sure Twin walked away

with his anime collection.

My brother ain’t no stereotype, that’s for sure.

Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin, for Real

Twin is a genius.

Full sentences at eight months old,

straight As since pre-K,

science experiments and scholarships

to space camp since fifth.

This also means we haven’t been

in the same grade since we were really little,

and then he got into a specialized high school,

so his book smarts meant

I couldn’t even copy his homework.

He is an award-winning bound book,

where I am loose and blank pages.

And since he came first, it’s his fault.

And I’m sticking to that.

Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin (Last and Most Important Reason)

He has no twin intuition!

He doesn’t get sympathy pains.

He doesn’t ever randomly know

that I had a bad day or that I need help.

In fact, he rarely lifts his eyes from the

page of a Japanese comic or the computer screen

long enough to know that I’m here at all.

But Why Twin Is Still the Only Boy I’ll Ever Love

Because although speaking to him

is like talking to a scatterbrained saint,

every now and then, he’ll say, in barely a mumble,

something that shocks the shit out of me.

Today he looks up from his textbook and blinks.

“Xiomara, you look different.

Like something inside of you has shifted.”

I stop breathing for a moment.

Is my body marked by my afternoon with Aman?

Will Mami see him on me?

I look at Twin, the puzzled smile on his face;

I want to tell him he looks different, too—

maybe the whole world looks different

just because I brushed thighs with a boy.

But before I get the words out

Twin opens his big-ass mouth:

“Or maybe it’s just your menstrual cycle?

It always makes you look a little bloated.”

I toss a pillow at his head and laugh.

“Only you, Twin. Only you.”

Sunday, September 23

Communication

Aman and I exchanged numbers to talk about lab work

but when I leave Mass I’m surprised to see

he’s messaged me.

A: So what did you think of the Kendrick?

And because Mami is angry-whispering

at me for sitting out the sacrament again

(I’ll do another bid of Mass all week if I have to),

I cage my squeal behind my teeth.

I type a quick response:

X: It was cool. We should listen to something else next time.

And his response is almost immediate:

A: Word.

About A

Every time I think about Aman

poems build inside me

like I’ve been gifted a box of metaphor Legos

that I