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

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.

The First Words

      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.

Mami Works

      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

Confirmation Class

      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.

God

      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