comment for every poem, everything is “Deep” and “Wow,”
his own poem using words like abyss and effervescent
(I think he’s studying for the SAT).
And then there’s Isabelle Pedemonte-Riley.
Her piece rhymes and she sounds
like a straight-up rapper. You can tell she loves
Nicki Minaj, too. That girl’s a storyteller
writing a world you’re invited to walk into.
I sit wondering how writing can bring
such strange strangers into the same room.
And then it’s my turn to read.
Nerves
I open my mouth but can’t push the words out.
It’s not like when I read to Aman.
Although I wanted him to like it,
I didn’t feel like I had to impress him.
But right now I’m nervous
and the poem doesn’t feel done yet,
or like a poem at all, just a journal entry.
A fist tightens in my stomach
and I take a breath trying to unclench it.
I’ve never imagined an audience for my work.
If anything my poems were meant to be seen and not heard.
The room is so quiet, and I clear my throat—
even my pause sounds too loud.
Isabelle speaks up.
“You got this, girl. Just let us hear every word.”
Ms. Galiano nods,
and Stephan gives a soft “mhmm.”
And so I grip my notebook tight and launch into the piece.
When I’m Done
Isabelle snaps, and Ms. Galiano smiles,
and of course, Chris has a comment
about my poem’s complex narrative structure,
or something like that.
I can’t remember
the last time people were silent
while I spoke, actually listening.
Not since Aman.
But it’s nice to know I don’t need him
in order to feel listened to.
My little words
feel important, for just a moment.
This is a feeling I could get addicted to.
Compliments
“You did a great job today, Xiomara.
I know it isn’t always easy
to put yourself out there like that,” Ms. Galiano says.
And although I’m used to compliments
they’re rarely ever about my thoughts,
so I can’t stop the smile that springs onto my face.
I make sure to swallow it before it blooms too big.
But it feels like an adult has finally really heard me.
And for the first time since the “incident”
I feel something close to happiness.
And I want to stay and talk to the other kids,
or to Ms. Galiano, but when I look up at the clock
I know I have to rush to church or Mami will know
that I skipped out. So instead, I just say “Thank you”
and leave without looking back.
Caridad Is Standing Outside the Church
C: Confirmation let out early.
Your mother’s inside saying a prayer.
I told her you were using the bathroom.
X: Shit. I’m sorry. I know you hate lying to her.
C: It’s okay, Xiomara. But listen,
you were mad lucky
Father Sean went straight
to the rectory after class.
X: I know, I know.
He would have blown up my whole spot.
C: Are you dealing with that boy again?
X: Actually, I was with two boys. And a girl.
Oh my God, you look like you might pass out!
I was at a poetry club meeting. There were other kids there. Relax.
C: You almost gave me a heart attack.
Speaking of poetry, I heard about an open mic
happening this Friday. We haven’t had a social activity in a while.
Down to go with me?
X: I can’t go, Caridad.
You know Mami won’t let me.
I’m still in trouble.
C: She’ll let you go
as long as it’s with me and Xavier.
Hope Is a Thing with Wings
Although I doubt it,
hope flies quick into
my body’s corners.
Thursday, December 13
Here
Although Mami still huffs
like a dragon at home
and Aman has stopped
trying to say I’m sorry
and Twin seems sadder
and sadder every day
and my silence feels like a leash
being yanked in all directions
I actually raise my hand
in English class
and answer Ms. Galiano’s question.
Because at least here with her,
I know my words are okay.
Haikus
Cafeterias
do not seem like safe places.
Better to chill, hide.
*
I skipped the lunchroom.
Instead I sit, write haikus
inside bathroom stalls.
*
Haikus are poems.
They have three lines, follow rules
of five-seven-five.
*
Traditionally
contrasting ideas are
tied together neat.
*
I’m like a haiku,
with different sides,
except no clean tie.
*
I count syllables,
using my fingers to help
until the bell rings.
Offering
I gather my thoughts and things
when the bathroom door flings opens.
Head down, I begin rushing out
when I hear the high-pitched voice:
“Hey, X.”
I look up to see Isabelle,
in a denim shirt and another frilly-ass skirt,
her curly blond fro
with a mind of its own frames her stare.
“Tell me you ain’t eat lunch in the bathroom?”
I clear my half-eaten lunch off the tray
and into the trash. Without a word reach for the door.
“Just because I saw you at poetry club
doesn’t mean we’re homies”
is what I don’t say but want to.
Isabelle puts a gentle hand on my shoulder;
that hand stops me in my tracks.
“X, I go into the photography room during lunch,
to eat and work on writing.
It’s quiet on this end of the