soft hands.
Even when I was a child, they were rough
from pushing wooden mops and scrubbing tiles.
But when I was little I didn’t mind.
We would walk down the street
and I would rub her calluses.
She would smile and say
I was her premio for hard work,
I was her premio for patience.
And I loved being her reward.
The golden trophy of her life.
I just don’t know when I got too big
for the appointed pedestal.
The Last Thing You Think While You’re Kneeling on Rice That Has Nothing to Do with Repentance:
How you will have deep grain-sized indents on your knees.
How lucky you are your jeans protect the skin from breaking.
How you will be walking slow to school.
How kneeling on pews was never as bad as this.
How neither your father nor brother say anything.
How you feel cold but blood has rushed to your face.
How your fists are clenched but they have nothing to hit.
How the stinging pain shoots up your thighs.
How you’ve never gritted your teeth this tight.
How it hurts less if you force yourself still, still, still.
How pointless these thoughts are. Any of them.
How kissing should never hurt so much.
Leaving
Twin presses a bag
of frozen mixed vegetables
against my knees
and another against my cheek.
“You’re lucky, you know.
She’s growing old.
She didn’t make you kneel very long.”
And with the stings
still fresh on my skin
I’m not in a place to nod.
But I know it’s true.
“Xio. Just don’t get in trouble
until we can leave.
Soon we can leave for college.”
I’ve never heard Twin sound so desperate,
never thought he dreamed of leaving
just like me.
I try not to be resentful he skipped a grade
and will escape sooner.
I try not to be upset at his soft touch.
I elbow him away,
afraid of how my hands
want to hurt everything around me.
What Do You Need from Me?
Is such a simple question.
But when Caridad texts Twin
the message to show to me,
I look at him and hand the phone back.
I’m not mad that he told her.
I know they’re both just worried.
But all I need is to give in to
what I wouldn’t let myself do in front of Mami:
I curl into a ball and weep.
Consequences
My mother drops the word no
like a hundred grains of rice.
I will kneel in these, too.
No cell phone.
No lunch money.
No afternoons off from church.
No boys.
No texting.
No hanging out after school.
No freedom.
No time to myself.
No getting out of confession
with Father Sean this Sunday.
Late That Night
The only person I want
to talk to is Aman.
And although Twin offers
to let me use his phone,
I don’t know what I’d say.
That we had a great day,
and that it all fell apart.
That my heart hurts more than my knees.
That we can’t be together anymore.
That I would take that beating
again to be with him?
Maybe, there are no words to say.
I just want to be held.
Friday, November 9
In Front of My Locker
I’m so out of it the next morning
as I put my things away in my locker
that I don’t notice the group of guys
circling near until one bumps me,
both his hands palming and squeezing my ass.
And I can tell by how his boys laugh,
how he smirks while saying “oops,”
that this was not an accident.
I scan the hall.
Other kids have slowed down.
Some girls whisper behind their hands.
The group of boys laugh, begin walking away.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Aman
slowing to a standstill. His smile fading.
For the first time since I can remember I wait.
I can’t fight today. Everything inside me feels beaten.
And maybe I won’t have to.
Aman is here. He’ll do something about it.
Of course, as a boy who cares about me,
he’s not going to let someone touch me
and make me feel so damn small inside.
Of course, as someone who I’ve talked to
about how weird it feels to be stared at
and touched like public property,
he’ll know how much this bothers me.
But Aman doesn’t move.
All the things I needed to tell him about last night,
all the things that have changed since we last kissed on the train
evaporate in the heat of my anger.
I feel my knees throbbing,
the rice bruises pressing into the fabric of my sweats.
And I think about how Aman is the reason
I was punished in the first place.
He’s not going to throw a punch.
He’s not going to curse or throw a fit.
He’s not going to do a damn thing.
Because no one will ever take care of me but me.
Pushing away from my locker,
I face the dude who groped me,
push him hard in the back.
He stumbles but before he can react
I look him dead in the eye:
“If you ever touch me again I’ll put my nails
through every pimple on your fucking face.”
I push my