The Poet X - Elizabeth Acevedo Page 0,11

stack and stack and stack.

I keep waiting for someone to knock them over.

But no one at home cares about my scribbling.

Twin: oblivious—although happier than he usually looks.

Mami: thinking I’m doing homework.

Papi: ignoring me as usual . . . aka being Papi.

Me: writing pages and pages about a boy

and reciting them to myself like a song, like a prayer.

Monday, September 24

Catching Feelings

In school things feel so different.

Ms. Galiano asks me about the Spoken Word Poetry Club,

and I try to pretend I forgot about it.

But I think she can tell by my face

or my shrug that I’ve been secretly practicing.

That I spend more time writing poems

or watching performance videos on YouTube

than I do on her assignments.

At lunch, I sit with the same group I sat with last year,

a table full of girls that want to be left alone.

I find comfort in apples and my journal,

as the other girls read books over their lunch trays,

or draw manga, or silently text boyfriends.

Sharing space, but not words.

In bio, when I lower my ass into the seat

next to Aman, I wonder if I should sit slower,

or faster, if I should write neater,

or run a fingertip across his knuckles

when Mr. Bildner isn’t looking.

Instead Aman and I pass notes on scrap paper

talking about our days, our parents,

our favorite movies and songs,

and the next time we’ll go to the smoke park.

If my body was a Country Club soda bottle,

it’s one that has been shaken and dropped

and at any moment it’s gonna pop open

and surprise the whole damn world.

Notes with Aman

A: You ever messed with anyone in school?

X: Nah, never really be into anyone.

A: We not cute enough for you?

X: Nope. Ya ain’t.

A: Damn. Shit on my whole life!

X: You just want me to say you cute.

A: Do you think I am?

X: I’m still deciding ☺

Tuesday, September 25

What I Didn’t Say to Caridad in Confirmation Class

I wanted to tell her that if Aman were a poem

he’d be written slumped across the page,

sharp lines, and a witty punch line

written on a bodega brown paper bag.

His hands, writing gently on our lab reports,

turned into imagery,

his smile the sweetest unclichéd simile.

He is not elegant enough for a sonnet,

too well-thought-out for a free write,

taking too much space in my thoughts

to ever be a haiku.

Lectures

“Mira, muchacha,”—

(I’m not sure if your eyes

can roll so hard in your head

that a stranger could use them

as a pair of dice, but if they can

someone just bad lucked on snake eyes)—

“when I was waiting for you

I saw you whispering to Caridad

in the middle of your class.

Do not let yourself get distracted

so that you lead yourself and others

from la palabra de dios.”

And although the night has cooled down

the fading summer heat,

sweat breaks out on my forehead,

my tongue feels swollen,

dry and heavy with all I can’t say.

Ms. Galiano’s Sticky Note on Top of Assignment 1

Xiomara,

Although you say you’re only “dressing your thoughts in poems,” I’ve found several of your assignments quite poetic. I wonder why you don’t consider yourself a poet?

I love that your brother gave you a notebook you still use. You really should come to the poetry club. I have a feeling you’d get a lot out of it.

—G

Sometimes Someone Says Something

And their words are like the catch of a gas stove,

the click, click while you’re waiting

for it to light up and then flame big and blue. . . .

That’s what happens when I read Ms. Galiano’s note.

A bright light lit up inside me.

But now I crumple up the note and assignment

and throw them out in the cafeteria trash can.

Because every day the idea of poetry club is like Eve’s apple:

something you can want but can’t have.

Friday, September 28

Listening

Today when Aman and I sit on the bench

I wait for him to pass me his headphones,

but he plays with my fingers instead.

“No music today, X.

Instead I want to hear you.

Read me something.”

And I instantly freeze.

Because I never, never read my work.

But Aman just sits patiently.

And with my heart thumping

I pull my notebook out.

“You better not laugh.”

But he just leans back and closes his eyes.

And so I read to him.

Quietly. A poem about Papi.

My heart pumps hard in my chest,

and the page trembles when I turn it,

and I rush through all the words.

And when I’m done I can’t look at Aman.

I feel as naked as if I’d undressed before him.

But he just keeps fiddling with my fingers.

“Makes me think of my mother being gone.

You got bars, X. I’m down to listen to them anytime.”

Mother Business

Aman and I don’t really talk about our families like that.

I know the rules. You don’t ask about

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