The Poet X - Elizabeth Acevedo Page 0,33
to the Train
I call Caridad.
And she answers singing “Happy Birthday,”
but cuts herself off early.
“What’s wrong, Xio? Are you crying?”
All I said was “Hey.”
But she knows by my voice
my world is on fire.
I take a breath.
She tells me to come over.
She tells me she’ll meet me.
She asks me what I need.
“Check on Twin.
Make sure he’s okay.
I just need to breathe.
I just need to leave.”
There’s a long pause.
And I can imagine her nodding
through the phone.
“I’m here for you.
You’ll figure it out.”
And that’s enough.
The Ride
The train stops and starts
like an old woman with a bad cough.
But I feel more than jumbled
when I walk on, so a halting train
doesn’t faze me at all.
When I get off on 168th
it’s started snowing softly.
I turn my face up into the wetness.
I pretend this is like a movie
where the sky offers healing.
But it only makes me colder.
I stand there waiting.
Knowing he said he would come.
Believing he will.
A tingle on my neck
is the only clue I have
and then I smell him,
his cologne a cloud
of so many memories
I didn’t even know we’d made.
Aman’s fingers reach
for my hand but he’s silent.
I keep my face open to the sky.
I squeeze his hand in mine.
No Turning Back
Aman asks me questions
but I barely hear any of them.
The only thing I feel
is the warmth of his fingers.
We walk nowhere for a while.
Until I notice: Aman is shivering.
I finally look at him.
Really look at him.
His hair is wet, his eyelashes
have droplets from the snow,
and he is wearing nothing
but a thin hoodie.
I can see his bare ankles below his sweats—
he must have rushed out without putting on socks.
I tug on his hand, and whisper against his cold cheek:
“You’re cold. Let’s get out of the cold.
You live near here, right?”
And although he raises both his perfect eyebrows
there is nothing left to say.
Taking Care
The long way up five flights of stairs
I have all the silence and time to think.
I know that Aman’s father works nights.
That at night Aman listens to music and does homework.
And I almost laugh.
All the time we were together and happy I avoided coming here.
And now that I’m nothing but a hot mess
I push my way into his home.
His couch is soft. Brown and cushiony.
No plastic covering like mine.
I don’t take my coat off. Or my backpack.
I just lean my head back and close my eyes.
I can hear Aman moving around me.
A table leg scrapes against the hardwood floor.
The refrigerator door opens and closes softly.
Then music playing.
But not J. Cole like I expected.
Not hip-hop at all.
Instead, it’s bass strings and soft steel drums.
Soca, I think, but slow and soothing.
When Aman tugs on my boots, I finally open my eyes.
And he is bending over my feet.
Staring at my mismatched socks.
Then he’s sitting beside me.
And I finally begin to feel warm.
He doesn’t ask what happened.
But the question floats like a blimp across the arch of his brows.
And so, I tell him all of my poems,
my words, my thoughts, the only place
I have ever been my whole self,
are a pile of ashes.
And smoke must still be lodged in my chest,
because it hurts so much when I’m done speaking.
Aman doesn’t say a word;
he just pulls me to him.
In Aman’s Arms
InAman’sarmsIfeel
warm.
InAman’sarmsIfeel
safe.
InAman’sarmshe
apologizes.
InAman’s arms I
apologize.
InAman’sarmsIwant
to forget.
InAman’sarmsmy
mouth finds his.
InAman’sarmsmy
hands touch skin.
InAman’sarmsmy shirt
comes off.
InAman’sarmsIam
shy for a moment.
InAman’sarmsIam
beautifulbeautiful
beautiful.
InAman’sarmsIfeel
beautiful.
InAman’s armsmy
jeans unsnap.
InAman’sarmsI show
myself.
InAman’sarms naked
skin rubs against mine.
InAman’sarms kisses
and kisses. My neck and ear.
InAman’sarmsfingers
touch my breasts.
InAman’sarms Istop
breathing.
InAman’sarmsI feel
good. So good.
And I Also Know
We have to stop.
Because now we’re lying on the couch
and he’s on top of me.
And his kisses feel so good,
everything feels so good.
But I also feel him pressed against me.
The part of him that’s hard.
That’s still an unanswered question
I don’t have a response for.
And when his hand brushes my thigh
and then moves up—
I know why island people cliff dive.
Why they jump to feel free, to fly,
and how they must panic for a moment
when the ocean rushes toward them.
I stop his hand. I pull my face from his kiss.
He is breathing hard. He is still kissing me hard.
He is still bumping up against me. Hard.
“We have to stop.”
Tangled
Sometimes I wear these really long three-strand necklaces.
And I love how they look. Like a spiderweb of fake gold.
But they’re the worst to put away.
The next time I try to wear them they’re a tangled knot.
No beginning, no end, just snag after snag.
That’s how I feel the moment I ask Aman to back up.
Like a big tangle. I feel: guilty, because he looks so
frustrated. I feel: hot and wanting. I feel: like crying
because everything is so mixed up. And I feel
the panic slowly die, because I can think.
I just need a