The Poet X - Elizabeth Acevedo Page 0,34

moment, things to slow down,

so I can undo the knots inside me.

The Next Move

I wait for him to call me all the names

I know girls get called in this moment.

I sit up and hold my bra against my chest

with no memory of how I became undone.

When his fingers brush against my spine

my whole body stiffens. Waiting.

But he only pulls my straps up and

snaps my bra closed. Hands me my T-shirt.

We are silent as I get dressed.

I wait for him to hand me my boots.

To point me toward the door.

I know this is how it works. You put out or you get out.

So I am surprised when instead of my boots

Aman hands me his own T-shirt,

and when I look at him confused

he takes it back and uses the sleeve

to wipe the tears sprinting down my cheek.

There Are Words

That need to be said

but we don’t say any of them.

We watch YouTube highlights of the Winter Games.

I help Aman fry eggs and sweet plantains.

I sip a Malta. Aman drinks a bottle

of his father’s Carib beer.

Somewhere in New York City it is late.

But in Aman’s living room time has stopped.

I’m dozing off, with the lights dark

and the buzz of the computer.

With Aman’s soft breathing in my ear,

I think of all the firsts I’ve given to this day,

and all the ones I chose to keep.

And this is a better thought

than the one that wants to break through

because in the back of my head I know

today I’ve made decisions

I will never be able to undo.

Wednesday, January 9

Facing It

When I walk into first-period English

Ms. Galiano takes one look at me

and stands up from her desk, gestures me outside.

Aman offered me one of his T-shirts,

but my boobs pulled it too tight across my chest

and so I’m wearing the same outfit as yesterday.

And by the way she looks at me

I know that Ms. Galiano knows it.

But she doesn’t mention clothes;

she says she called my house.

That when I ran out of poetry club she got concerned,

got the number from the school directory,

that she spoke to my father, who sounded frantic,

that my whole family was wondering where I was.

She asks me if I’ve called them.

She asks me what’s going on.

And my chest is heaving.

Because I don’t know what to tell her.

She puts a soft hand on my arm

and I look into the face of a woman

not much older than me,

a woman with a Spanish last name,

who loves books and poetry,

who I notice for the first time is pretty,

who has a soft voice and called my house

because she was worried

and the words are out before I know it:

confirmation, lying about poetry, the rice,

the book burning, leaving the house, sleeping at Aman’s.

My face burns hot, and the words are too fast,

and I wonder again and again why I’m saying them,

and if people are looking; but I can’t seem to stop

all the words that I’ve held clenched tight,

and then I say words I’ve never even known I’ve thought:

“I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.”

And I’m saying them against Ms. Galiano’s small frame,

her slim arms around me as she hugs me tight.

As she tells me over and over:

“Just breathe. Just breathe.

It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.”

“You Don’t Have to Do Anything You Don’t Want to Do.”

And so I take a breath

I didn’t realize I needed to take.

When has anyone ever said those words to me?

Maybe only Aman, who’s never forced me

to smoke, or kiss, or anything.

But everyone else just wants me to do:

Mami wants me to be her proper young lady.

Papi wants me to be ignorable and silent.

Twin and Caridad want me to be good so I don’t attract

attention.

God just wants me to behave so I can earn being alive.

And what about me? What about Xiomara?

When has anyone ever told me

I had the right to stop it all

without my knuckles, or my anger,

with just some simple words.

“But you do have to talk to your mom.

Really talk to her. And you do need to figure out

how to make a relationship with her work.”

What I Say to Ms. Galiano After She Passes Me a Kleenex

Okay.

Going Home

Is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

All day I’ve been unfocused. Unsure of what I need to do.

Of how to do it. Hands trembling at the thought

of what will happen when I walk through the front door.

Because my mother’s ears are soundproof when it comes to me.

The only one she ever listens to is God.

During lunch, Isabelle doesn’t ask what happened,

she just hands me her bag of Doritos.

After bio, Aman rubs my shaking hands as we walk