The Poet X - Elizabeth Acevedo Page 0,9

all the space it wants.

I toss my head, and screw up my face,

and grit my teeth, and smile, and make a fist,

and every one of my limbs

is an actor trying to take center stage.

And then Mami knocks on the door,

and asks me what I’m in here reciting,

that it better not be more rap lyrics,

and I respond, “Verses. I’m memorizing verses.”

I know she thinks I mean Bible ones.

I hide my notebook in my towel before heading to my room

and comfort myself with the fact that I didn’t actually lie.

J. Cole vs. Kendrick Lamar

Now that we’re doing real labs

Aman and I are forced to speak.

Mostly we mumble under our breath

about measurements and beakers,

but I can’t forget what I told Caridad:

I want to get to know him.

I ask him if he has the new J. Cole album.

Shuffle papers as I wait for him to answer.

Aman signs his name beneath mine on the lab report.

The bell rings, but neither of us moves.

Aman straightens and for the first time his eyes lock onto mine:

“Yeah, I got Cole, but I rather the Kendrick Lamar—

we should listen to his new album together sometime.”

Asylum

When my family first got a computer,

Twin and I were about nine.

And while Twin used it to look up astronomy discoveries

or the latest anime movies,

I used it to stream music.

Flipping the screen from music videos

to Khan Academy tutorials

whenever Mami walked into the room.

I fell in love with Nicki Minaj,

with J. Cole, with Drake and Kanye.

With old-school rappers like

Jay Z and Nas and Eve.

Every day I searched for new songs,

and it was like applying for asylum.

I just needed someone to help me escape

from all the silence.

I just needed people saying words

about all the things that hurt them.

And maybe this is why Papi stopped listening to music,

because it can make your body want to rebel. To speak up.

And even that young I learned music can become a bridge

between you and a total stranger.

What I Tell Aman:

“Maybe. I’ll let you know.”

Dreaming of Him Tonight

A boy’s face in my hands,

but he’s nearly a man.

Memories of Mami’s words

almost lash my fingers away

but still I brush upward,

against the grain and prickle

and bristle of a light beard at his jaw.

His cheekbones rise like a sun;

the large canvas of a forehead.

A nose that takes space.

This is a face that doesn’t apologize

for itself.

The boy moves his body closer to mine

and I can feel his hands

drop down from my waist to my hips

then brushing up toward these boobs I hate

that I now push at him like an offering,

his hands move so close, our faces move closer—

and then my phone alarm rings,

waking me up for school.

In my dreams his is a mouth that knows

more than curses and prayer. More

than bread and wine. More

than water. More

than blood.

More.

Thursday, September 20

The Thing about Dreams

When I get to school

I know I won’t be able to look Aman in the face.

You can’t dream about touching a boy

and then look at him in real life

and not think he’s going to see

that dream like a face full of makeup

blushing up your cheeks.

But even though I’m nervous

when I get to bio, the moment

I sit next to him I calm down.

Like my dream has given me

an inside knowledge

that takes away my nerves.

“I’d love to listen to Kendrick.

Maybe we could do it tomorrow?”

Date

This doesn’t count as a date.

Or even anything sinful.

Just two classmates

meeting up after school

to listen to music.

So I try not to freak out

when Aman agrees

to our non-date.

Mami’s Dating Rules

Rule 1. I can’t date.

Rule 2. At least until I’m married.

Rule 3. See rules 1 and 2.

Clarification on Dating Rules

The thing is,

my old-school

Dominican parents

Do. Not. Play.

Well, mostly Mami.

I’m not sure Papi

has any strong opinions,

or at least none he’s ever said.

But Mami’s been telling me

early as I can remember

I can’t have a boyfriend

until I’m done with college.

And even then,

she got strict rules

on what kind of boy

he better be.

And Mami’s words

have always been

scripture set in stone.

So I already know

going to a park

alone with Aman

might as well be

the eighth deadly sin.

But I can’t wait

to do it anyway.

Friday, September 21

Feeling Myself

All last night, I held the secret of meeting Aman

like a candle that could too easily be blown out.

Any time Mami said my name, or Twin looked in my direction,

I waited for them to ask what I was hiding.

This morning, I iron my shirt. A for-sure sign I’m scheming

since I hate to iron.

But no one says anything about the shirt,

or my new shea butter–scented lip balm.

And when I slide my jeans up my hips and shimmy into them

my legs feel powerful beneath my hands

and I smile over my shoulder at