The Poet X - Elizabeth Acevedo Page 0,8

They were married.

X: You don’t think they lusted before the aisle?

Girl, bye. Anyways, there’s a boy at school.

He’s cute. His arm . . . is warm.

C: I don’t even want to know what you mean by that.

Is that code for something? Stop being fresh.

X: Caridad, you always trying to protect me

from my dirty mind . . . of warm arms.

C: Sometimes I think I’m the only one

trying to protect you from yourself.

What Twin Be Knowing

As I’m getting ready for sleep, I’m surprised

to see the crumpled poetry club flyer

neatly unfolded and on my bed.

It must have fallen out of my bag.

Without looking up from the computer screen,

Twin says in barely a whisper,

“This world’s been waiting

for your genius a long time.”

My brother is no psychic, no prophet,

but it makes me smile,

this secret hope we share,

that we are both good enough

for each other and maybe the world, too.

But when he goes to brush his teeth,

I tear the flyer into pieces before Mami can find it.

Tuesdays, for the foreseeable future,

belong to church. And any genius I might have

belongs only to me.

Sharing

Although Twin and I are super different,

people find it strange how much we share.

We shared the same womb, the same cradle,

and our whole lives the same room.

Mami wanted to find a bigger apartment,

told Papi we should move to Queens,

or somewhere far from Harlem,

where we could each have our own room.

But apparently, although Papi had changed

he still stood unmoved.

Said everything we could want was here.

And sharing a room wouldn’t kill us.

And it hasn’t.

Except. I once heard a rumor

that goldfish have an evolutionary gene

where they’ll only develop as big as the tank they’re put into.

They need space to stretch. And I wonder if

Twin and I are keeping each other small.

Taking up the space that would have let the other grow.

Questions for Ms. Galiano

I’m one of the first students in English class the next day.

And although I promised myself I would keep my lips

stapled together when Ms. Galiano asks me how I’m doing,

the words trip and twist their ankles

trying to rush out my mouth: “Soyourunthepoetryclubright?”

She doesn’t laugh. Cocks her head, and nods.

“Yes, we just started it this year. Spoken Word Poetry Club.”

And my face must have been all kinds of screwed-up confused

because she tries to explain how spoken word is performed poetry,

but it all sounds the same to me . . . except one is memorized.

“It might be easier if I showed you.

I’ll pull a clip up as today’s intro to class.

Are you thinking of joining the club?”

I shake my head no. She gives me that look again,

when someone who doesn’t know you is sizing you up

like you’re a broken clock and they’re trying to translate the ticks.

Spoken Word

When class starts Ms. Galiano projects a video:

a woman onstage, her voice quiet,

then louder and faster like an express train picking up speed.

The poet talks about being black, about being a woman,

about how beauty standards make it seem she isn’t pretty.

I don’t breathe for the entire three minutes

while I watch her hands, and face,

feeling like she’s talking directly to me.

She’s saying the thoughts I didn’t know anyone else had.

We’re different, this poet and I. In looks, in body,

in background. But I don’t feel so different

when I listen to her. I feel heard.

When the video finishes, my classmates,

who are rarely excited by anything, clap softly.

And although the poet isn’t in the room

it feels right to acknowledge her this way,

even if it’s only polite applause;

my own hands move against each other.

Ms. Galiano asks about the themes and presentation style

but instead of raising my hand I press it against my heart

and will the chills on my arms to smooth out.

It was just a poem, Xiomara, I think.

But it felt more like a gift.

Wait—

Is this what Ms. Galiano thinks

I’m going to do in her poetry club?

She mentioned competition,

and I know slam is just that,

but she can’t think that I,

who sits silently in her classroom,

who only speaks to get someone off my back,

will ever get onstage

and say any of the things I’ve written,

out loud, to anybody else.

She must be out her damn mind.

Holding a Poem in the Body

Tonight after my shower

instead of staring at the parts of myself

I want to puzzle-piece into something else,

I watch my mouth memorize one of my poems.

Even though I don’t ever plan on letting anyone hear it,

I think about that poetry video from class. . . .

I let the words shape themselves hard on my tongue.

I let my hands pretend to be punctuation marks

that slash, and point, and press in on each other.

I let my body finally take up