The Poet X(23)
“Xio, what did you do now?”
I don’t look at Twin.
Because if I look at him
I’ll cry. And if I cry he’ll cry.
And if he cries he’ll get yelled at by Papi for crying.
He pushes up to standing
then kneels in front of me again like his body doesn’t know what to do.
“Xio?”
And I want to kick the fear in his voice.
“Xio, do they know you’re home yet?
Maybe you can sneak out through the fire escape? I won’t tell. I’ll—”
But Mami’s chancletas beat against the floorboards
and Twin and I both know.
He pushes to his feet.
And I see his hands are balled up into fists he’ll never use.
When the footsteps stop outside our door I stand, brace my shoulders.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Twin.
Go back to your homework.
Or your flirting or whatever.”
I didn’t do anything at all.
Ants
Mami
drags
me
by
my
shirt
to
her
altar
of
the
Virgin.
Pushes
me
down
until
I
kneel.
“Look the Virgin Mary in the eye, girl. Ask for forgiveness.”
I
bow
my
head
hoping
to
find
air
in
the
tiles.
My
big
is
impossible
to
make
tiny
but
I
try
to
make
ant
of
myself.
“Don’t make me get more rice. Mira la Santa María in the eye.”
I’ve
learned
that
ants
hold
ten
times
their
weight—
“Look at her, muchacha, mírala!”
—can
crawl
through
crevices;
have
no
God,
but
crumbs—
“Last chance, Xiomara. ‘Santa María, llena eres de gracias . . . ’”
—they
will
survive
the
apocalypse.
Little
brown
ants,
and
hill-building
ants,
and
fire
ants
all
red
and—
I Am No Ant
My
mother
yanks
my
hair,
pulling
my
face
up
from
the
tiles,
constructing
a
church
arch
of
my
spine
until
Mary’s
face
is
an
inch
from
mine;
I
am
no
ant.
Only
sharply
torn.
Something
broken.
In
my
mother’s
hand.
Diplomas
“This is why you want to go away for college so you can
open your legs for any boy with a big
enough smile.
You think I came to this country for this?
So you can carry a diploma
in your belly but never
a degree?
Tu no vas a ser un maldito cuero.”
Cuero
“Cuero,” she calls me to my face.
The Dominican word for ho.
This is what a cuero looks like:
A regular girl. Pocket-less jeans
that draw grown men’s eyes. Long hair.
A nose ring. A lip ring. A tongue
ring. Extra earrings. Any ring
but a diamond one on her left hand.
Skirts. Shorts. Tank tops. Spaghetti straps. A cuero lets the world know she is hot. She can feel the sun.
A spectacular girl. With too much ass. Too much lip. Too much sass.
Hips that look like water waiting
to be spilled into the hands
of thirsty boys. A plain girl.
With nothing llamativo—nothing
that calls attention. A forgotten girl.
One who parts her hair down the middle.
Who doesn’t have cleavage. Whose mouth doesn’t look like it is forever waiting.
Un maldito cuero. I am a cuero, and they’re right.
I hope they’re right. I am. I am. I AM.
I’ll be anything that makes sense of this panic. I’ll loosen myself from this painful flesh.
See, a cuero is any skin. A cuero is just a covering. A cuero is a loose thing.