The Poet X - Elizabeth Acevedo Page 0,31

similar to my first.

“Ran out of gift ideas?” I tease.

He shakes his head and nods at my old notebook,

fat and falling apart on the kitchen table.

“No, and your old one is so full I know you haven’t either.”

We pack up and walk arm in arm to the train.

Today will be a good day.

The Good

Caridad has left me five voice mails singing “Happy Birthday.”

They’re ridiculous and her voice is horrible,

but I laugh every time. I’m sure she’s trying to get up

to sixteen by the end of the day.

When I go put away my bio textbook before lunch,

an envelope flutters to the ground.

Inside I find a printed-out receipt for two admission tickets

to an apple farm just north of the Bronx.

Only one person at this school knows

how much I love apples. Aman.

A laugh uncurls in my throat and stretches its way to my lips.

By the time poetry club comes around,

I’m walking on air before Stephan pulls me into the classroom,

Chris takes off his fitted and croons “Happy Birthday”—

the Stevie Wonder version.

Isabelle hands me a cupcake.

Ms. Galiano gives me a wink.

I think I will remember this birthday for the rest of my life.

The Bad

When we start going around the room

to read our poems I reach into my bag.

I find the new journal Twin gave me,

but after searching and searching, I realize

I must have left my old one on the kitchen table.

For a moment I feel so anxious:

all those poems I wrote over break,

and I don’t even have one to share.

But I try from memory;

one of my favorites

rolls off my tongue

as if I planned it that way.

It feels so good to do a new poem.

And so good to listen

to Chris, Stephan, and Isabelle.

And when I finally look at the clock

I realize I’m running late to church.

At some point Mami will find out

I haven’t been going to confirmation classes.

Probably when the class is confirmed

and I don’t have an excuse for poetry club anymore.

But for now, I’m going to keep frontin’.

I just need to get to church before she’s waiting outside.

I grab my bag in a hurry,

leave with a quick wave, not my usual good-bye,

and zip my North Face up tight.

I grab my phone to shoot Caridad a text

and see I have two missed calls.

My mother’s voice mail

spears ice into my bones:

“Te estoy esperando en casa.”

Click.

The Ugly

I’m breathing hard by the time I get home.

I ran from the train and my face is flushed.

I glance at the kitchen table before hurrying

to my room—my notebook isn’t there.

Mami is sitting on the edge of my bed

with my journal cradled between her hands.

When she looks at me,

I feel blood rush from my cheeks.

I hear a baseball game in the living room,

but I know neither Papi nor Twin can save me.

My hands pulse to grab the book from her

but I don’t move from the doorway.

She speaks softly: “You think I don’t know

enough English to figure out you talk about boys

and church and me? To know all these terrible things you think?”

My mother has always seemed like a big woman

even though she’s so much smaller than I am.

This moment when she swells up and stands

I shrink in the eyes of her wrath.

“These thoughts you have, that you would write them,

for the people to read . . . without feeling guilt. Shame.

What kind of daughter of mine are you?”

She seems lost. As if I’ve yanked an anchor

from the only thing that’s kept her afloat.

She grabs the book in one hand

and it’s then that I notice the box of matches.

The box that’s always on the stove.

The one that’s sitting on my bed.

I don’t know what an asthma attack feels like.

But it has to be like this:

like claws reaching into your chest

and snatching sharply every bit of air—leaving you breathless

and wounded before you know what’s happened—

she’s lit the match.

Let Me Explain

I tell her.

That no one sees the words.

That they’re just my personal thoughts.

That it helps for me to write them down.

That they’re private.

That she wasn’t supposed to ever read my poems.

That I’m sorry.

That I’m sorry.

That I’m sorry.

And I’m digging my fingers into the doorframe.

It’s the only thing holding me up,

holding me back.

My anger wants to become a creature

with teeth and nails but I keep it collared

because this is my mother. And I am sorry.

That she found it,that I wrote it,that I ever thought

my thoughts were mine.

She holds the lit match up

to a corner of my notebook.

“Get a trash can, Xiomara.

I don’t want ashes on my floor.”

If Your Hand Causes You to Sin

“If your hand causes you to sin . . .

If your eye causes you