The Poet X by Elizabeth AcevedoMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Another YA book with the main character trying to figure out who she is. But this one hits all the right notes. Written almost exclusively in poems, Xiomara struggles with finding a way to express herself, her questions about her faith, the unwanted attention she gets for her feminine body, her place in her Dominican family. She finds poetry to be a way to express how she feels, and when she finds the courage to perform them, she finally feels heard. The book is amazing as is, but as an added benefit, buy the Audible version to hear Elizabeth Acevedo perform the heck out of the poems.
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the Beginning Was the Word
Not Even Close to Haikus
Not Even Close to Haikus
Mami’s back is a coat hanger. Her anger made of the heaviest wool. It must keep her so hot.
What Twin Be Knowing
My brother is no psychic, no prophet, but it makes me smile, this secret hope we share, that we are both good enough for each other and maybe the world, too.
Sharing
But apparently, although Papi had changed he still stood unmoved.
Part II: And the Word Was Made Flesh
Sometimes Someone Says Something
Sometimes Someone Says Something And their words are like the catch of a gas stove, the click, click while you’re waiting for it to light up and then flame big and blue. . . .
Warmth
Without words we are in agreement that we’ll walk as far as we can this way: my hand held in his held in his coat pocket. Each of us keeping the other warm against the quiet chill.
Swoon
Swoon In science we learned that thermal conductivity is how heat flows through some materials better than others. But who knew words, when said by the right person, by a boy who raises your temperature, move heat like nothing else? Shoot a shock of warmth from your curls to your toes?
Gay
Gay I’ve always known. Without knowing. That Twin was. We never said. I think he was scared. I think I was, too. He’s Mami’s miracle. He would become her sin. I guess I hoped. If I didn’t ever really know. It would be like he wasn’t. But maybe my silence. Just made him feel more alone. Maybe my silence. Condones the ugly things people think. All that I know. Is that I don’t know how to move forward from this.
Cuero
Cuero “Cuero,” she calls me to my face. The Dominican word for ho. This is what a cuero looks like: A regular girl. Pocket-less jeans that draw grown men’s eyes. Long hair. A nose ring. A lip ring. A tongue ring. Extra earrings. Any ring but a diamond one on her left hand. Skirts. Shorts. Tank tops. Spaghetti straps. A cuero lets the world know she is hot. She can feel the sun. A spectacular girl. With too much ass. Too much lip. Too much sass. Hips that look like water waiting to be spilled into the hands of thirsty boys. A plain girl. With nothing llamativo—nothing that calls attention. A forgotten girl. One who parts her hair down the middle. Who doesn’t have cleavage. Whose mouth doesn’t look like it is forever waiting. Un maldito cuero. I am a cuero, and they’re right. I hope they’re right. I am. I am. I AM. I’ll be anything that makes sense of this panic. I’ll loosen myself from this painful flesh. See, a cuero is any skin. A cuero is just a covering. A cuero is a loose thing. Tied down by no one. Fluttering and waving in the wind. Flying. Flying. Gone.
Mami Says
Mami Says, “There be no clean in men’s hands. Even when the dirt has been scrubbed from beneath nails, when the soap scent from them suspends in the air—there be sins there. Their washed hands know how to make a dishrag of your spine, wring your neck. Don’t look for pristine handling when men use your tears for Pine-Sol; they’ll mop the floor with your pride. There be no clean there, girl. Their fingers were made to scratch dirt, to find it in the best of things. Make your heart a Brillo pad, brittle and steel—don’t be no damn sponge. Their fingers don’t know to squeeze nicely. Nightly, if you imagine men’s kisses, soft touches, a caress, remember Adam was made from clay that stains the hand, remember that Eve was easily tempted.”
Consequences
My mother drops the word no like a hundred grains of rice. I will kneel in these, too.
Part III: The Voice of One Crying in the Wilderness
My Heart Is a Hand
Heart Is a Hand That tightens into a fist. It is a shrinking thing, like a raisin, like a too-tight tee, like fingers that curl but have no other hand to hold them so they just end up biting into themselves.
In Translation
My mouth cannot write you a white flag, it will never be a Bible verse. My mouth cannot be shaped into the apology you say both you and God deserve. And you want to make it seem it’s my mouth’s entire fault. Because it was hungry, and silent, but what about your mouth? How your lips are staples that pierce me quick and hard. And the words I never say are better left on my tongue since they would only have slammed against the closed door of your back. Your silence furnishes a dark house. But even at the risk of burning, the moth always seeks the light.
First Poetry Club Meeting
It’s funny how the smallest moments are like dominoes lining up, being stacked with the purpose of knocking you on your ass.
All the Way Hype
It almost feels like the more I bruise the page the quicker something inside me heals.
It’s a Rosary
I lay it across my wrist and cinch the clasps closed. Her daughter on one side, myself on the other.
The Next Move
I sit up and hold my bra against my chest with no memory of how I became undone.
Slam Prep
She tells me words give people permission to be their fullest self.
Assignment 5—First and Final Draft
I only know that learning to believe in the power of my own words has been the most freeing experience of my life. It has brought me the most light. And isn’t that what a poem is? A lantern glowing in the dark.
