"The Poet X" by Elizabeth Acevedo, Part III

Instead of the confessional, he tells me
to meet him in the rectory,
the well-lit meeting space behind the church.

But forgiveness is only granted
if the person is actually remorseful.

His Spanish has a funky accent
and when he gives the gospel for the Latino Mass
half of the words be sounding made up.

“You cannot turn your back on God.
I was on my journey to the convent,
prepared to be his bride,
when I married your father.

Halfway through an episode a commercial
endorsed by one of last year's Winter Olympians comes on.

Even Twin has stopped speaking to me
as if he’s afraid a single word
will cause my facade to crack.

Your hands on mine were cold
Your lips near my ear were warm
Your “I’m sorry” fervent
But you have no need to apologize

Twin stares at me, baffled,
and then something clears on his face.

“His name is Cody.
And the poem was actually for you.
I thought it would be cathartic
to write something beautiful for yourself.”

Looking back, maybe we had a parasitic relationship?
One of us taking and the other only trying to stay afloat.

Chris Hodges is loud, a mile-a-minute talker,
a comment for every poem, everything is “Deep” and “Wow,”
his own poem using words like abyss and effervescent
(I think he’s studying for the SAT).

Chris Hodges is loud, a mile-a-minute talker,
a comment for every poem, everything is “Deep” and “Wow,”
his own poem using words like abyss and effervescent
(I think he’s studying for the SAT).

And even though it's cliché, it's also perfect.

By the time poetry club comes around,
I’m walking on air before Stephan pulls me into the classroom,
Chris takes off his fitted and croons “Happy Birthday”—
the Stevie Wonder version.

And as she recites Scripture
words tumble out of my mouth too,
all of the poems and stanzas I’ve memorized spill out,
getting louder and louder, all out of order,
until I’m yelling at the top of my lungs,
heaving the words like weapons from my chest;
they’re the only thing I can fight back with.

“My name is hard to say,
and my hands are hard, too.
I raise them here
to build the church of myself.
This X was always an omen.”

We're wild women, flinging verses at each other
like grenades in a battlefield, a cacophony of violent poems—

and then we're both gasping, wordless.

My notebook is smoldering,
my heart feels like it’s been burned crisp,
and all I can think about are mixed metaphors.

If I were a pile of ashes
who could I count on
to gather me in a pretty urn?

But I feel more than jumbled
when I walk on, so a halting train
doesn’t faze me at all.

I help Aman fry eggs and sweet plantains.

It’s a sweet memory made sweeter when
at the third session with Father Sean,
she gives me my name bracelet back,
the gold melded where it’d been broken, but still whole.

Do not give a disclaimer or introduction to your poem

I don’t see the standing ovation...

I don’t know if I’ll ever be as religious as
my mother, as devout as my brother and best friend.