The Poet X – WINNER OF THE CILIP CARNEGIE MEDAL 2019. Элизабет Асеведо
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that my thoughts were important. From that day forward I’ve written every single day. Sometimes it seems like writing is the only way I keep from hurting.
Is the same every school year:
I go straight home after school
and since Mami says that I’m “la niña de la casa,”
it’s my job to help her out around the house.
So after school I eat an apple—my favorite snack—
wash dishes, and sweep.
Dust around Mami’s altar to La Virgen María
and avoid Papi’s TV if he’s home
because he hates when I clean in front of it
while he’s trying to watch las noticias or a Red Sox game.
It’s one of the few things Twin and I argue about,
how he never has to do half the cleaning shit I do
but is still better liked by Mami.
He helps me when he’s home, folds the laundry
or scrubs the tub. But he won’t get in trouble if he doesn’t.
I hear one of Mami’s famous sayings in my ear,
“Mira, muchacha, life ain’t fair,
that’s why we have to earn our entrance into heaven.”
Twin is easier for Mami to understand. He likes church.
As much of a science geek as he is,
he doesn’t question the Bible the way that I do.
He’s been an altar boy since he was eight,
could quote the New Testament—in Spanish and English—
since he was ten, leads discussions at Bible study
even better than the priest. (No disrespect to Father Sean.)
He even volunteered at the Bible camp this summer
and now that school’s started he’ll miss
the Stations of the Cross dioramas his campers made
from Popsicle sticks, the stick figure drawings
of Mary in the manger, the mosaic made of marbles
that he hung in the window of our room,
the one that I threw out this afternoon while I was cleaning,
watched it fall between the fire escape grates. For a second,
it caught the sun in a hundred colors
until it smashed against the street.
I’ll apologize to Twin later. Say it was an accident.
He’ll forgive me. He’ll pretend to believe me.
For as long as I can remember
I’ve only ever called my brother “Twin.”
He actually is named after a saint,
but I’ve never liked to say his name.
It’s a nice name, or whatever,
even starts with an X like mine,
but it just doesn’t feel like the brother I know.
His real name is for Mami, teachers, Father Sean.
But Twin ? Only I can call him that,
a reminder of the pair we’ll always be.
Although Twin is older by almost an hour—
of course the birth got complicated when it was my turn—
he doesn’t act older. He is years softer than I will ever be.
When we were little, I would come home
with bleeding knuckles and Mami would gasp
and shake me: “¡Muchacha, siempre peleando!
Why can’t you be a lady? Or like your brother?
He never fights. This is not God’s way.”
And Twin’s eyes would meet mine
across the room. I never told her
he didn’t fight because my hands
became fists for him. My hands learned
how to bleed when other kids
tried to make him into a wound.
My brother was birthed a soft whistle:
quiet, barely stirring the air, a gentle sound.
But I was born all the hurricane he needed
to lift—and drop—those that hurt him to the ground.
Tuesday, September 11
It’s Only the First Week of Tenth Grade
And high school is already a damn mess.
In ninth grade you are in between.
No longer in junior high,
but still treated like a kid.
In ninth grade you are always frozen
between trying not to smile or cry,
until you learn that no one cares about
what your face does, only what your hands’ll do.
I thought tenth grade would be different
but I still feel like a lone shrimp
in a stream where too many are searching
for someone with a soft shell
to peel apart and crush.
Today, I already had to curse a guy out
for pulling on my bra strap,
then shoved a senior into a locker
for trying to whisper into my ear.
“Big body joint,” they say,
“we know what girls like you want.”
And I’m disgusted at myself
for the slight excitement
that shivers up my back
at the same time that I wish
my body could fold into the tiniest corner
for me to hide in.
If Medusa was Dominican
and had a daughter, I think I’d be her.
I look and feel like a myth.
A story distorted, waiting for others to stop