The Poet X – WINNER OF THE CILIP CARNEGIE MEDAL 2019. Элизабет Асеведо
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me this gift of battle and now curses
how well I live up to it.
My parents probably wanted a girl who would sit in the pews
wearing pretty florals and a soft smile.
They got combat boots and a mouth silent
until it’s sharp as an island machete.
Pero, tú no eres fácil
is a phrase I’ve heard my whole life.
When I come home with my knuckles scraped up:
Pero, tú no eres fácil.
When I don’t wash the dishes quickly enough,
or when I forget to scrub the tub:
Pero, tú no eres fácil.
Sometimes it’s a good thing,
when I do well on an exam or the rare time I get an award:
Pero, tú no eres fácil.
When my mother’s pregnancy was difficult,
and it was all because of me,
because I was turned around
and they thought that I would die
or worse,
that I would kill her,
so they held a prayer circle at church
and even Father Sean showed up at the emergency room,
Father Sean, who held my mother’s hand
as she labored me into the world,
and Papi paced behind the doctor,
who said this was the most difficult birth she’d been a part of
but instead of dying I came out wailing,
waving my tiny fists,
and the first thing Papi said,
the first words I ever heard,
“Pero, tú no eres fácil.”
You sure ain’t an easy one.
Cleaning an office building in Queens.
Rides two trains in the early morning
so she can arrive at the office by eight.
She works at sweeping, and mopping,
emptying trash bins, and being invisible.
Her hands never stop moving, she says.
Her fingers rubbing the material of plastic gloves
like the pages of her well-worn Bible.
Mami rides the train in the afternoon,
another hour and some change to get to Harlem.
She says she spends her time reading verses,
getting ready for the evening Mass,
and I know she ain’t lying, but if it were me
I’d prop my head against the metal train wall,
hold my purse tight in my lap, close my eyes
against the rocking, and try my best to dream.
Tuesday, August 28
Mami has wanted me to take the sacrament
of confirmation for three years now.
The first year, in eighth grade, the class got full
before we could sign up, and even with all her heavenly pull
Mami couldn’t get a spot for Twin and me.
Father Sean told her it’d be fine if we waited.
Last year, Caridad, my best friend, extended her trip in D.R.
right when we were supposed to begin the classes,
so I asked if I could wait another year.
Mami didn’t like it, but since she’s friends with Caridad’s mother
Twin went ahead and did the class without me.
This year, Mami has filled out the forms,
signed me up, and marched me to church
before I can tell her that Jesus feels like a friend
I’ve had my whole childhood
who has suddenly become brand-new;
who invites himself over too often, who texts me too much.
A friend I just don’t think I need anymore.
(I know, I know . . . even writing that is blasphemous.)
But I don’t know how to tell Mami that this year,
it’s not about feeling unready,
it’s about knowing that this doubt has already been confirmed.
It’s not any one thing
that makes me wonder
about the capital G.O.D.
About a holy trinity
that don’t include the mother.
It’s all the things.
Just seems as I got older
I began to really see
the way that church
treats a girl like me differently.
Sometimes it feels
all I’m worth is under my skirt
and not between my ears.
Sometimes I feel
that turning the other cheek
could get someone like my brother killed.
Sometimes I feel
my life would be easier
if I didn’t feel like such a debt
to a God
that don’t really seem
to be out here checking for me.
“Mami,” I Say to Her on the Walk Home
The words sit in my belly,
and I use my nerves
like a pulley to lift
them out of my mouth.
“Mami, what if I don’t
do confirmation?
What if I waited a bit for—”
But she cuts me off,
her index finger a hard exclamation point
in front of my face.
“Mira, muchacha,”
she starts, “I will
feed