The Poet X – WINNER OF THE CILIP CARNEGIE MEDAL 2019. Элизабет Асеведо
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She tells me I owe it to
God and myself to devote.
She tells me this country is too soft
and gives kids too many choices.
She tells me if I don’t confirm here
she will send me to D.R.,
where the priests and nuns know
how to elicit true piety.
I look at her scarred knuckles.
I know exactly how she was taught
faith.
When You’re Born to Old Parents
Who’d given up hope for children
and then are suddenly gifted with twins,
you will be hailed a miracle.
An answered prayer.
A symbol of God’s love.
The neighbors will make the sign of the cross
when they see you,
thankful you were not a tumor
in your mother’s belly
like the whole barrio feared.
When You’re Born to Old Parents, Continued
Your father will never touch rum again.
He will stop hanging out at the bodega
where the old men go to flirt.
He will no longer play music
that inspires swishing or thrusting.
You will not grow up listening
to the slow pull of an accordion
or rake of the güira.
Your father will become “un hombre serio.”
Merengue might be your people’s music
but Papi will reject anything
that might sing him toward temptation.
When You’re Born to Old Parents, Continued Again
Your mother will engrave
your name on a bracelet,
the words Mi Hija on the other side.
This will be your favorite gift.
This will become a despised shackle.
Your mother will take to church
like a dove thrust into the sky.
She was faithful before, but now
she will go to Mass every single day.
You will be forced to go with her
until your knees learn the splinters of pews,
the mustiness of incense,
the way a priest’s robe tries to shush silent
all the echoing doubts
ringing in your heart.
The Last Word on Being Born to Old Parents
You will learn to hate it.
No one, not even your twin brother,
will understand the burden
you feel because of your birth;
your mother has sight for nothing
but you two and God;
your father seems to be serving
a penance, an oath of solitary silence.
Their gazes and words
are heavy with all the things
they want you to be.
It is ungrateful to feel like a burden.
It is ungrateful to resent my own birth.
I know that Twin and I are miracles.
Aren’t we reminded every single day?
Mami was a comparona:
stuck-up, they said, head high in the air,
hair that flipped so hard
that shit was doing somersaults.
Mami was born en La Capital,
in a barrio of thirst buckets
who wrote odes to her legs,
but the only man Mami wanted
was nailed to a cross.
Since she was a little girl
Mami wanted to wear a habit,
wanted prayer and the closest
thing to an automatic heaven admission
she could get.
Rumor has it, Mami was forced to marry Papi;
nominated by her family
so she could travel to the States.
It was supposed to be a business deal,
but thirty years later, here they still are.
And I don’t think Mami’s ever forgiven Papi
for making her cheat on Jesus.
Or all the other things he did.
Tuesday, September 4
And I already want to pop the other kids right in the face.
They stare at me like they don’t got the good sense—
or manners—I’m sure their moms gave them.
I clip my tongue between my teeth
and don’t say nothing, don’t curse them out.
But my back is stiff and I’m unable to shake them off.
And sure, Caridad and I are older
but we know most of the kids from around the way,
or from last year’s youth Bible study.
So I don’t know why they seem so surprised to see us here.
Maybe they thought we’d already been confirmed,
with the way our mothers are always up in the church.
Maybe because I can’t keep the billboard frown off my face,
the one that announces I’d rather be anywhere but here.
Leads the confirmation class.
He’s been the head priest at La Consagrada Iglesia
as