The Poet X - Elizabeth Acevedo Page 0,35

out the door.

His gentle hold warms me up.

During last period, Ms. Galiano comes to my math classroom

and gives me a note with her personal cell number in case I need to talk to her later.

When I step out of school, Aman’s hand in mine,

both Caridad and Twin are standing at the front gate.

And although none of them can face Mami for me,

I know I’m not alone.And I finally know who might help.

Aman, Twin, and Caridad

I introduce Aman to Twin and Caridad

before we all walk to the train station.

I want to ask Twin what happened

after I left last night.

But I don’t want to know.

I can tell by how tired he looks

that whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

No one says anything for a long time.

Caridad squeezes my hand and tells me to call her.

Aman kisses my forehead and tells me “we gon’ be all right.”

When Twin catches me looking at him

he gives me a soft smile.

And then his eyes begin to water.

On that rocking train, we hug and rock, too.

Divine Intervention

I make a stop

before going home.

Because I know

assistance comes

in mysterious ways

and I’m going to need

all the help I can get.

Homecoming

At the apartment door, I slide the key in,

but don’t unlock.

I can hear both people behind me breathing.

Mami might not be home yet.

I still have time to gather my thoughts.

To get my life together.

But when I open the door

she is there. Standing in the kitchen,

wringing a dishrag. Her eyes are red.

And she looks small, so small.

Twin gives my shoulder a squeeze

and moves behind me.

I take a deep breath and square my shoulders.

“Mami, we need to talk.

And I think we need help to do it.”

I step aside and let Father Sean cram into the kitchen.

He reaches out a hand to my mother: “Altagracia.”

And this woman I’ve feared,

this woman who has been both mother and monster,

the biggest sun in my sky—

bright, blinding, burning me to the wick—

she hunches her shoulders and begins to sob.

Silent, silent crying that shakes her whole body.

And I am stuck, and still.

Before I go to her.

My Mother and I

Might never be friends.

Will never shop for a prom dress together

and paint designs on each other’s nails.

My mother and I

might never learn

how to give and accept

an apology from the other.

We might be too much

the same mirror.

But our arms can do

what our words can’t just now.

Our arms can reach.

Can hug tight.

Can teach us

to remember each other.

That love can be a band:

tears if you pull it too hard,

but also flexible enough

to stretch around the most chaotic mass.

My mother does not say she is sorry.

That she loves me.

And I hope one day for the words,

but for now, her strong pat on my back,

her hand through my hair,

this small moment of soft.

Is enough.

Thursday, January 24

Stronger

In bio we learn about erosion.

About how over time a small stream of water

falling down the same rock face for centuries

can break an entire mountain apart

little bit by little bit.

For the next couple of weeks,

my mother and I work to break down

some of the things that have built up between us.

We meet with Father Sean once a week

and talk. Sometimes about each other.

Sometimes just about our days.

My mother starts teaching Communion classes,

and she seems happier than I’ve ever seen her.

The little kids make her smile, she gets excited

over teaching certain passages, and I remember

it used to be like that with me once.

It’s a sweet memory made sweeter when

at the third session with Father Sean,

she gives me my name bracelet back,

the gold melded where it’d been broken, but still whole.

Sometimes Twin and Papi come to the sessions

with Father Sean. Twin wiggles uncomfortably

in his chair. I know there’s a lot he doesn’t say.

But I hope, one day, he will be able to say it.

Papi, surprisingly, loves to talk. And once he gets going

he makes all of us laugh, and when we are talking about him

and the things he’s done that have hurt us, he doesn’t leave.

He listens.

One day, as we’re all leaving Father Sean turns to me

and I brace myself, afraid he is going to ask about confirmation,

and that’s still a can of worms I ain’t fishing with,

but instead he says:

“Xavier told us you’re performing in a poetry competition.

Your very own boxing ring, eh?

I assume we’re all invited?”

Slam Prep

Ms. Galiano wouldn’t let me back out.

Even with everything going on,

she said I needed to give it a chance.

So, I practiced in front of my mirror

and at poetry club.

Although I lost so many poems,

and I feel a pang every time I think about them burning,

I’m also so proud of all I remember.

I’m trying to convince myself rewriting