Angel & Hannah

could not adore such a soft-spoken sweetie?
Left shoulder blade tattooed with a jester,
mouth full of hilarious smut — Hey, let’s take a shower, he entreats,
my tongue’ll be the sponge. A gum-snapping
goddess of Lust winks over Angel’s bed, agreeing,
Love is the funniest! She lures
the two to locked bedrooms. Alas ~ in a few, he cheats.
So, she cheats, and they brawl, and Angel gets locked up.
Hannah works late shifts to pay his Rikers bail.
Far away she hears her mother’s voice,
forcing her awake — You can’t save a lost boy —
her breath sounds hot & stern.
But young lovers scar hard and take
each other’s hearts for ransom. They appear
so cool from afar…up close, their small hands shake.

Graduation
South of campus, Angel strays
behind a mimosa tree, blurred
like a sepia photo, a secret.
Hannah bobs in a sea of royal-blue
caps & gowns. Angel frowns
down at his two-dollar bodega-rose.
Everyone’s armed with exotic bouquets —
calla lily, iris, tulip. Angel
breaks a thorn off his prickly stem.
Hannah’s handed her diploma onstage —
his throat stirs. She smiles,
hugs an oldwhitelady tight,
and snaps pictures with her Kin,
miles away from him.


Jones Beach
They trail behind his cousins on the shore, till Chino
becomes one black speck, Jessie, another. Stripping sandals for fun,
they run barefoot into ice-blue, see-through, sailboat
water, no seaweed, dirty needles like Orchard Beach
or Beach Ninety-eighth, Latin Kings with black-gold-black
necklaces glinting on collarbones like silent threats to Nietas.
None of that old danger — just water, up to their chests.
They reach a point where their toes don’t touch the sand.
Dip in and out of salt, their breath ragged now.
The undertow yanks their thighs with her cold hand,
grips them down, down, she panics, to death —
Hannah gasps. Sinks. Angel grips her neck —
throws her up and forward — Swim!
Onshore, they choke up liquid ropes of ocean.
Angel. Angel.
You saved me — she admits.


Eden (Hannah)
with you i’m not a girl
with small duties file
cuticles carry groceries
with you i unfurl
like Eve i can kill or heal
with my mouth and hands
turn a bed into a lightning-
filled tent steal
deep inside your
skin bloom stars
inside till you smell
like me
i burn like you kin
to our blood’s
desire to flee from
Eden


Virginity
He ooo-oohs her in DeKalb’s train
station, takes her hand, lugs her JanSport bag
all the way to Hart Street in Timberlands, do-rag
tight round his forehead. Her hair, a horse’s mane
dolled with spit curls just for him. She lies
to her mother, says she’ll be praying at a Korean church
retreat. Instead, she kneels before Angel for her First
Time in a white peekaboo nightie.
His mother, Alma, lays in the sickroom next door.
Blue light falls over their skin in strips.
He kisses all ten of her chipped toes. Her hip bones.
The wooden floor begins to creak. She winces.
Clenches her fists into yellow rosebuds, stuffs her mouth with a pillow,
so his mother, next room over, can sleep.
Mute, she takes her first lover.
It has to be this way, no other.


Summer Break
Grains of light sift over Wyckoff
Avenue, dusting strollers shoved
by thick-hipped mamis with slick, gelled hair.
Tattered triangular flags blow and click
like sharp teeth above all heads.
Angel struts, clasping Hannah’s fingers.
A cool wind ripples his undershirt,
dares to lift her skirt. Young fools with easy
grins, they stroll loose-hipped down Hart
Street, say wassup to boys ribboning D’s Phat Beatz, Sal’s Pizzeria.
Young street king and queen; everyone knows
his name: Pssst…mira Angel y la China,
they hiss. But the two own the block —
walk straight into a hot wind.


I slept but my heart was awake.
Listen! My lover is knocking.
~ Song of Songs


II.
Verano
Summer
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring,
lives churned & cut like ’copter blades whirring
across a bleak Bushwick sky — Hannah’s disowned,
left with only Angel’s arms for a home —
Rafi snores between them in the cramped twin bed,
they’re more than lovers now; they’re surrogate parents.
Deep in Bushwick, they decide to rent a small one-bedroom,
cook pots of arroz con pollo together and soon,
warmth spills into their lives like a late noon sun,
but the beauty dries out almost as soon as it’s begun,
cuz Angel’s fam crashes at their crib, makes a mess of it,
Hannah throws clothes, plates, hour-long bitching fits —
they inherit the sins and vices of their folks, no heat,
their hearts & apartment grow cold —
they cut each other to bone / no more tenderness to bleed —
like a hot wind, she scorches his earth and leaves —


Split
I’m leaving to live with Angel, Hannah says un-
der her breath. Her father sits with fists
clenched on the kitchen counter. He twists
his mouth into a sad grin. Her mother waits,
gripping doorway. She prays
her husband won’t kill her daughter, grab wrists,
bend them into mercy, bash his fist
into her baby’s baby skin. He takes
a whisk from his blue inhaler. Air is hot, un-
bearable, thick…If you…disown me, apa, I…I
understand. But I can’t…stop…
loving this man. Hannah weeps. Presses
her hand on her apa’s knee. He drops
his head. Sobs. Why…why me?


Moving
She packs her dresses while her dad’s
at work. Slams CD cases till they crack, white lightning down Mary’s face.
Doesn’t stand & look at white
bedroom walls, no, it’s all done in a hot rush,
fire burning her Nikes
to get the hell out. Fuck this house,
she seethes. House of broken plates,
torn hair, han, misery.
She shoves handfuls of socks, quar-
ters, thongs into her JanSport,
watches the clock, calls Four Twos,
looks back out at the quaint,
two-story wooden houses,
bird-filled, tree-lined streets.
No one sees her leave.


Grace & Grief
(Halmoni)
There she goes.
Another split.
Split nara, split family.
Is our fate a legacy of
grief? A history of han
for eternity?
My ancestral tree
shredded like
rice paper
in a hard immigrant wind. Aigu.
Wild girls —
what mother-pain!
She’s my penance — she’s
me, fifty years later, still hardheaded.
Stunning,
headed straight for
tragedy she thinks is Love
or Destiny.
But to spit her
into the city-jungle,
among ghosts, demons,
thieves? No place for a
jashikeh. Aiyu. Look how
my son and his wife salt
& smoke in separate
rooms. Tombs. God, what
is this world?
Are we all guaranteed moments of grace
as well as grief? Little girl-fool,