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.
Tied down by no one. Fluttering
and waving in the wind. Flying. Flying. Gone.
Mami Says,
“There be no clean in men’s hands.
Even when the dirt has been scrubbed
from beneath nails, when the soap scent
from them suspends
in the air—there be sins there.
Their washed hands know how to make a dishrag
of your spine, wring your neck.
Don’t look for pristine handling
when men use your tears for Pine-Sol;
they’ll mop the floor with your pride.
There be no clean there, girl.
Their fingers were made to scratch dirt,
to find it in the best of things.
Make your heart a Brillo pad,
brittle and steel—don’t be no damn sponge.
Their fingers don’t know to squeeze nicely.
Nightly, if you imagine men’s kisses, soft touches, a caress,
remember Adam was made from clay that stains the hand,
remember that Eve was easily tempted.”
Repetition
Mami’s hard hands
make me dizzy and nauseous.
Mami prays and prays
while my knees bite into grains of rice.
Mami repeats herself
while her statue of the Virgin watches.
The whole house witnesses
as I pray this steep, steep price.
Things You Think While You’re Kneeling on Rice That Have Nothing to Do with Repentance:
I once watched my father peel an orange
without once removing the knife from the fruit.
He just turned and turned and turned it like a globe
being skinned. The orange peel becoming a curl,
the inside exposed and bleeding. How easily he separated
everything that protected the fruit and then passed the bowl
to my mother, dropping that skin to the floor
while the inside burst between her teeth.
Another Thing You Think While You’re Kneeling on Rice That Has Nothing to Do with Repentance:
My mother has never had soft hands.
Even when I was a child, they were rough
from pushing wooden mops and scrubbing tiles.
But when I was little I didn’t mind.
We would walk down the street
and I would rub her calluses.
She would smile and say
I was her premio for hard work,
I was her premio for patience.
And I loved being her reward.
The golden trophy of her life.
I just don’t know when I got too big
for the appointed pedestal.
The Last Thing You Think While You’re Kneeling on Rice That Has Nothing to Do with Repentance:
How you will have deep grain-sized indents on your knees.
How lucky you are your jeans protect the skin from breaking.
How you will be walking slow to school.
How kneeling on pews was never as bad as this.
How neither your father nor brother say anything.
How you feel cold but blood has rushed to your face.
How your fists are clenched but they have nothing to hit.
How the stinging pain shoots up your thighs.
How you’ve never gritted your teeth this tight.
How it hurts less if you force yourself still, still, still.
How pointless these thoughts are. Any of them.
How kissing should never hurt so much.
Leaving
Twin presses a bag
of frozen mixed vegetables
against my knees
and another against my cheek.
“You’re lucky, you know.
She’s growing old.
She didn’t make you kneel very long.”
And with the stings
still fresh on my skin
I’m not in a place to nod.
But I know it’s true.
“Xio. Just don’t get in trouble
until we can leave.
Soon we can leave for college.”
I’ve never heard Twin sound so desperate,
never thought he dreamed of leaving
just like me.
I try not to be resentful he skipped a grade
and will escape sooner.
I try not to be upset at his soft touch.
I elbow him away,
afraid of how my hands
want to hurt everything around me.
What Do You Need from Me?
Is such a simple question.
But when Caridad texts Twin
the message to show to me,
I’m not mad that he told her.
I know they’re both just worried.
But all I need is to give in to
what I wouldn’t let myself do in front of Mami:
I curl into a ball and weep.
Consequences
My mother drops the word no
like a hundred grains of rice.
I will kneel in these, too.
No cell phone.
No lunch money.
No afternoons off from church.
No boys.
No texting.
No hanging out after school.
No freedom.
No time to myself.
No getting out of confession
with Father Sean this Sunday.
Late That Night
The only person I want
to talk to is Aman.
And although Twin offers
to let me use his phone,
I don’t know what I’d say.
That we had a great day,
and that it all fell apart.
That my heart hurts more than my knees.
That we can’t be together anymore.
That I would take that beating
again to be with him?
Maybe, there are no words to say.
I just want to be held.
Friday, November 9
In Front of My Locker
I’m so out of it the next morning
as I put my things away in my locker
that I don’t notice the group of guys
circling near until one bumps me,
both his hands palming and squeezing my ass.
And I can tell by how his boys laugh,
how he smirks while saying “oops,”
that this was not an accident.
I scan the hall.
Other kids have slowed down.
Some girls whisper behind their hands.
The group of boys laugh, begin walking away.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Aman
slowing to a standstill. His smile fading.
For the first time since I can remember I wait.
I can’t fight today. Everything inside me feels beaten.
And maybe I won’t have to.
Aman is here. He’ll do something about it.
Of course, as a boy who cares about me,
he’s not going to let someone touch me
and make me feel so damn small inside.
Of course, as someone who I’ve talked to
about how weird it feels to be stared at
and touched like public property,
he’ll know how much this bothers me.
But Aman doesn’t move.
All the things I needed to tell him about last night,
all the things that have changed since we last kissed on the train
evaporate in the heat of my anger.
I feel my knees throbbing,
the rice bruises pressing into the fabric of my swe
ats.
And I think about how Aman is the reason
I was punished in the first place.
He’s not going to throw a punch.
He’s not going to curse or throw a fit.
He’s not going to do a damn thing.
Because no one will ever take care of me but me.
Pushing away from my locker,
I face the dude who groped me,
push him hard in the back.
He stumbles but before he can react
I look him dead in the eye:
“If you ever touch me again I’ll put my nails
through every pimple on your fucking face.”
I push my locker closed and grill Aman before walking away.
“That goes for you, too. Thanks for nothing.”
Part III
The Voice of One
Crying in the Wilderness
Silent World
All of Friday and the weekend
the world I’ve lived in
wears masking tape
over its mouth.
I wear invisible
Beats headphones
that muffle sound.
I don’t hear teachers,
or Father Sean,
Twin, or Caridad.
Aman tries to speak to me
I pretend my ears are cotton filled.
I speak to no one.
The world is almost peaceful
when you stop trying
to understand it.
Sunday, November 11
Heavy
After Mass on Sunday,
under Mami’s knowing eyes, I step to Father Sean.
He’s kissing babies and talking to old people,
but he gives me his full attention.
I ask to meet him for confession.
And I can’t tell if I imagine it,
but his eyes almost seem to get soft.
He glances behind me,
where Mami is standing.
Instead of the confessional, he tells me
to meet him in the rectory,
the well-lit meeting space behind the church.
And I don’t know how much truth
my tongue will stumble through.
I walk through the side door and
avoid looking at pictures of the saints.
I’m always avoiding something
and it seems as heavy as any cross.
My Confession
How do you admit a thing like this?
You would think I was pregnant
the way my parents act
like I let them down.
And by my parents, I mean Mami.
Papi mostly huffs around
telling me I better do what Mami says.
And Mami huffs around
saying I better read Proverbs 31 more closely.
And I just want to tell them,
it’s NOT THAT DEEP.
I don’t got an STD, or a baby.
It was just a tongue. In my mouth.
So I’m not quite sure what to tell
Father Sean when I meet him in the rectory.
Maybe I don’t remember my Bible right,
but I don’t think this is one of the seven sins.
He sits across from me and crosses his ankles.
“Whenever you’re ready we can talk.
I’m guessing you don’t need anonymity and I thought
this would be cozier than the confessional. Do you want tea?”
I look at my clasped hands. Because I can’t look him in the face.
“I think I committed lust. And disobeyed my parents . . .
although they never actually said I couldn’t kiss a boy
on the train, so I’m not sure if that’s the right sin.”
I wait for Father Sean to speak,
but he just stares at the picture of the pope above me.
“Are you actually sorry, Xiomara?”
I wait a moment. Then I shake my head, no. Say:
“I’m sorry I got in trouble.
I’m sorry I have to be here.
That I have to pretend to you and her
that I care about confirmation at all.
But I’m not sorry I kissed a boy.
I’m only sorry I was caught.
Or that I had to hide it at all.”
Father Sean Says,
“Our God is a forgiving God.
Even when we do things we shouldn’t
our God understands the weakness of the flesh.
But forgiveness is only granted
if the person is actually remorseful.
I think this goes much deeper
than kissing a boy on the train.”
Prayers
Father Sean is Jamaican.
His Spanish has a funky accent
and when he gives the gospel for the Latino Mass
half of the words be sounding made up.
It makes the younger kids laugh;
it makes our older folks smile.
His Spanish, when he talks to my mother,
does neither. His hazel eyes are sure
and gentle when he looks at Mami
and tells her:
“Altagracia, I don’t think Xiomara
is quite ready to be confirmed.
I think she has some questions
we should let her answer first.”
He explains it’s not what I confessed.
But several questions I’ve asked
and comments I’ve made
make him think I should keep
coming to classes
but not take the leap of confirmation this year.
My mother’s face scrunches tight
like someone has vacuumed all her joy.
I avoid her eyes
but something must flash in them
because Father Sean raises a hand.
“Altagracia, please be calm.
Remember anger is as much a sin
as any Xiomara may have committed.
We all need time to come to terms
with certain things, don’t we?”
And I don’t know
if Father Sean just granted me a blessing
or nailed my coffin shut.
How I Can Tell
I can tell when Mami is really angry
because her Spanish becomes faster than usual.
The words bumping into one another like go-karts.
“Mira, muchacha . . . You will not embarrass me in church again.
From now on, you’re going to fix yourself.
Do you hear me, Xiomara?
No te lo voy a decir otra vez.”
(But I know she will in fact tell me again. And again.)
“There are going to be some big changes.”
Before We Walk in the House
“You cannot turn your back on God.
I was on my journey to the convent,
prepared to be his bride,
when I married your father.
I think it was punishment.
God allowed me America
but shackled me with a man addicted to women.
It was punishment,
to withhold children from me for so long
until I questioned if anyone in this world would ever love me.
But even business deals are promises.
And we still married in a church.
And so I never walked away from him
although I tried my best to get back
to my first love.
And confirmation is the last step I can give you.
But the child sins just like the parent.
Because look at you, choosing this over the sacred.
I don’t know if you’re more like your father
or more like me.”
My Heart Is a Hand
That tightens
into a fist.
It is a shrinking thing,
like a raisin,
like a too-tight tee,
like fingers that curl
but have no other hand
to hold them
so they just end up
biting into themselves.
Wednesday, November 14
A Poem Mami Will Never Read
Mi boca no puede escribir una bandera blanca,
nunca será un verso de la Biblia.
Mi boca no puede formarse el lamento
que tú dices tú y Dios merecen.
Tú dices que todo esto
es culpa de mi boca.
Porque tenía hambre,
porque era callada.
pero ¿y la boca tuya?
Cómo tus labios son grapas
que me perforan rápido y fuerte.
Y las palabras que nunca dije
quedan mejor muertas en mi lengua
porque solamente hubieran chocado
contra la puerta cerrada de tu espalda.
Tu silencio amuebla una casa oscura.
Pero aun a riesgo de quemarse,
la mariposa nocturna siempre busca la luz.
In Translation
My mouth cannot write you a white flag,
it will never be a Bible verse.
My mouth cannot be shaped into the apology
you say both you and God deserve.
And you want to make it seem
it’s my mouth’s entire fault.
Because it was hungry,
and silent, but what about your mouth?
How your lips are staples
that pierce me quick and hard.
And the words I never say
are better left on my tongue
since they would only have slammed
against the closed door of your back.
Your silence furnishes a dark house.
But even at the risk of burning,
the moth always seeks the light.
Heartbreak
I never meant to hurt anyone.
I didn’t see how I could
by stealing kisses
as I whispered promises into ears
that I know now weren’t listening.
I pretend not to see him in the hallway.
I pretend not to see them at home.