The Poet X - Elizabeth Acevedo Page 0,3

a mile off,

knows when I need her to joke, or when I need to fume,

or when I need to be told about myself.

Mostly, Caridad isn’t all extra goody-goody in her judgment.

She knows all about the questions I have,

about church, and boys, and Mami.

But she don’t ever tell me I’m wrong.

She just gives me one of her looks,

full of so much charity, and tells me that she knows

I’ll figure it all out.

Questions I Have

Without Mami’s Rikers Island Prison–like rules,

I don’t know who I would be

when it comes to boys.

It’s so complicated.

For a while now I’ve been having all these feelings.

Noticing boys more than I used to.

And I get all this attention from guys

but it’s like a sancocho of emotions.

This stew of mixed-up ingredients:

partly flattered they think I’m attractive,

partly scared they’re only interested in my ass and boobs,

and a good measure of Mami-will-kill-me fear sprinkled on top.

What if I like a boy too much and become addicted to sex

like Iliana from Amsterdam Ave.?

Three kids, no daddy around,

and baby bibs instead of a diploma hanging on her wall.

What if I like a boy too much and he breaks my heart,

and I wind up angry and bitter like Mami,

walking around always exclaiming how men ain’t shit,

even when my father and brother are in the same room?

What if I like a boy too much

and none of those things happen . . .

they’re the only scales I have.

How does a girl like me figure out the weight

of what it means to love a boy?

Wednesday, September 5

Night before First Day of School

As I lie in bed,

thinking of this new school year,

I feel myself

stretching my skin apart.

Even with my Amazon frame,

I feel too small for all that’s inside me.

I want to break myself open

like an egg smacked hard against an edge.

Teachers always say

that each school year is a new start:

but even before this day

I think I’ve been beginning.

Thursday, September 6

H.S.

My high school is one of those old-school structures

from the Great Depression days, or something.

Kids come from all five boroughs, and most of us bus or train,

although since it’s my zone school, I can walk to it on a nice day.

Chisholm H.S. sits wide and squat, taking up half a block,

redbrick and fenced-in courtyard with ball hoops and benches.

It’s not like Twin’s fancy genius school: glass, and futuristic.

This is the typical hood school, and not too long ago

it was considered one of the worst in the city:

gang fights in the morning and drug deals in the classroom.

It’s not like that anymore, but one thing I know for sure

is that reputations last longer than the time it takes to make them.

So I walk through metal detectors, and turn my pockets out,

and greet security guards by name, and am one of hundreds

who every day are sifted like flour through the doors.

And I keep my head down, and I cause no waves.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, this place is a place,

neither safe nor unsafe, just a means, just a way to get closer

to escape.

Ms. Galiano

Is not what I expected.

Everyone talks about her

like she’s super strict

and always assigning

the toughest homework.

So I expected someone older,

a buttoned-up, floppy-haired,

suit-wearing teacher,

with glasses sliding down her nose.

Ms. Galiano is young, has on bright colors,

and wears her hair naturally curly.

She’s also little—like, for real petite—

but carries herself big, know what I mean?

Like she’s used to shouldering her way

through any assumptions made about her.

Today, I have her first-period English,

and after an hour and fifteen minutes of icebreakers,

where we learn one another’s names

(Ms. Galiano pronounces mine right on the first try),

she gives us our first assignment:

“Write about the most impactful day of your life.”

And although it’s the first week of school,

and teachers always fake the funk the first week,

I have a feeling Ms. Galiano

actually wants to know my answer.

Rough Draft of Assignment 1—Write about the most impactful day of your life.

The day my period came, in fifth grade, was just that,

the ending of a childhood sentence.

The next phrase starting in all CAPS.

No one had explained what to do.

I’d heard older girls talk about “that time of the month”

but never what someone was supposed to use.

Mami was still at work when I got home from school and went

to pee, only to see my panties smudged in blood. I pushed Twin off

the computer and Googled “Blood down there.”

Then I snuck money from where Mami hides it beneath the pans,

bought tampons that I shoved into my body

the way I’d seen Father Sean cork the sacramental wine.

It was almost summer. I was wearing shorts.

I put the tampon in wrong. It only stuck