The Poet X – WINNER OF THE CILIP CARNEGIE MEDAL 2019 - Элизабет Асеведо

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year, during youth Bible study, he wasn’t so strict.

      He talked to us in his soft West Indian accent,

      coaxing us toward the light.

      Or maybe I just didn’t notice his strictness

      because the older kids were always telling jokes,

      or asking the important questions

      we really wanted to know the answers to:

      “Why should we wait for marriage?”

      “What if we want to smoke weed?”

      “Is masturbation a sin?”

      But confirmation class is different.

      Father Sean tells us we’re going to deepen

      our relationship with God.

      “Of your own volition you will accept him into your lives.

      You will be sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit.

      And this is a serious matter.”

      That whole first class,

      I touch my tongue to the word volition,

      like it’s a fruit I’ve never tasted

      that’s already gone sour in my mouth.

      Father Sean lectures

      I wait for a good moment

      whispering to C:

      X: You make out with any boys while you were in D.R.?

      C: Girl, stop. Always talking about some boys.

      X: Well if you didn’t kiss nobody, why you all red in the face?

      C: Xiomara, you know I didn’t kiss no boy.

      Just like I know you didn’t.

      X: Don’t look at me like that. I’m not proud of the fact

      that I still ain’t kiss nobody. It’s a damn shame, we’re almost

      sixteen.

      C: Don’t say damn, Xiomara. And don’t roll your eyes at me

      either. You won’t even be sixteen until January.

      X: I’m just saying, I’m ready to stop being a nun. Kiss a boy,

      shoot, I’m ready to creep with him behind a stairwell and let him feel me up.

      C: Oh God, girl. I really just can’t with you.

      Here, here’s the Book of Ruth. Learn yourself some virtue.

      X: Tsk, tsk. You gonna talk about this in a church,

      then take his name in vain. Ouch!

      C: Keep talking mess. I’m going to do more than pinch you.

      I don’t know why I missed you.

      X: Maybe because I make you laugh more than your

      stuffy-ass church mission friends?

      C: I can’t with you. Now, stop worrying about kissing and boys.

      I’m sure you’ll figure it out.

      We are not two sides of the same coin.

      We are not ever mistaken for sisters.

      We don’t look alike, don’t sound alike.

      We don’t make no damn sense as friends.

      I curse up a storm and am always ready to knuckle up.

      Caridad recites Bible verses and promotes peace.

      I’m ready to finally feel what it’s like to like a boy.

      Caridad wants to wait for marriage.

      I’m afraid of my mother so I listen to what she says.

      Caridad genuinely respects her parents.

      I should hate Caridad. She’s all my parents want in a daughter.

      She’s everything I could never be.

      But Caridad, Twin, and I have known each other since diapers.

      We celebrate birthdays together, attended Bible

      camp sleepovers with each other, spend Christmas Eve

      at each other’s houses.

      She knows me in ways I don’t have to explain.

      Can see one of my tantrums coming a mile off,

      knows when I need her to joke, or when I need to fume,

      or when I need to be told about myself.

      Mostly, Caridad isn’t all extra goody-goody in her judgment.

      She knows all about the questions I have,

      about church, and boys, and Mami.

      But she don’t ever tell me I’m wrong.

      She just gives me one of her looks,

      full of so much charity, and tells me that she knows

      I’ll figure it all out.

      Without Mami’s Rikers Island Prison–like rules,

      I don’t know who I would be

      when it comes to boys.

      It’s so complicated.

      For a while now I’ve been having all these feelings.

      Noticing boys more than I used to.

      And I get all this attention from guys

      but it’s like a sancocho of emotions.

      This stew of mixed-up ingredients:

      partly flattered they think I’m attractive,

      partly scared they’re only interested in my ass and boobs,

      and a good measure of Mami-will-kill-me fear sprinkled on top.

      What if I like a boy too much and become addicted to sex

      like Iliana from Amsterdam Ave.?

      Three kids, no daddy around,

      and baby bibs instead of a diploma hanging on her wall.

      What if I like a boy too much and he breaks my heart,

      and I wind up angry and bitter like Mami,

      walking around always exclaiming how men ain’t shit,

      even when my father and brother are in the same room?

      What if I like a boy too much

      and none of those things happen . . .

      they’re the only scales I have.

      How does a girl like me figure out the weight

      of what it means to love a boy?

       Wednesday, September 5

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