Angel & Hannah

I bless you
tonight with a sorrowless
sleep,
but tomorrow —
and beyond, Hannah-ya
what you sow,
you reap.

Knickerbocker
Hannah’s first day in Bushwick:
sunstars wink on car roofs like gardenias.
Wind flaps tabletops.
Out every open window, Jerry Rivera croons.
Hannah sits outside at Sal’s pizzeria.
Her skin and the brick, warmed red.
She watches two Latin Kings flex.
It’s a new town, new smells. Adobo, saltlust.
She’s see-through, an outline waiting to be colored in.
Please. One moment a day —
en paz — a light, cool wind.
Today, no evil.
Even El Jefe gums a tune
as he rattles down Knickerbocker Avenue.


Home?
Funny. Here, in Maria’s cramped bedroom
with its bare bulb & peeling walls, a rat
scuttling by lil’ Juanito’s minibike, three fat kids
plumped underneath her like pillows,
Maria stretched out like a queen in short-shorts
popping seedless green grapes into every
kid’s open mouth, Tito’s laughter,
window open to car screeches,
slaps of Bereco’s & Angel’s domino tiles,
clink of distant beers, an iron bar
in Hannah’s stiff spine melts…
she softens here, is almost home here,
nestled in chaos,
a fawn hidden in high grass.


Flock
One reason she loves living in Brooklyn
is everyone’s kids: Alejandro, Joey, Sofia, Kayla, and lil’ Juanito
flock to her like tough, cute, baby gray-
gold ducklings. Angie’s youngest one is a lost starling
adopted by the young and scrabble-beaked.
They sing her Aaliyah songs, clamber over her shy frame,
pluck tufts of fluff from a futon couch to decorate
her hair with a tiara of wool and feathers.
Hannah does her homework while da other girls sniff & smoke,
watch old Tom & Jerry reruns & new Disney classics together,
whirl kids like tiny planets over the living room.
With small hands they drag her into bunk beds,
make blanket forts & play, far from the hard-eyed titas in the kitchen.
She feels blessed when Alejandro’s tiny feet slap like webs over linoleum. Titi!!
He stretches baby arms towards her neck. She flies him up to kiss his brown ringlets.


Disco
Angel, you are hilarious,
she giggles, spellbound, laying
nekked as he winds atop the mattress,
grinding hips like clockwork —
sssst!!! He sizzles, chile,
when a melody hits him
one Junebug afternoon: a distant reggae tune
thru someone’s speakers like action, tender satisfaction —
mmm, Angel, you crazy!
he closes his eyes & slow-dances himself, magic —
he brings disco balls, confetti,
his body’s pent-up sadness,
unwinding in a serpentine, one-man show. He throws
off sparks seen from a passing L,
soul-light gold as a summer sun
melting down a brownstone window.


Heat
friday nite on Hart St!
hot enuf for kids to loot a corner hydrant
for its rainbows with josé’s wrench,
rivering gutters, girls drenched
in tight tanks with curly hair
slink by while boys hiss,
ay Díos, madre mía, Cristo Santo,
as if saints laved in starry half-light can’t
compare. out on his stoop, Angel passes
a strawberry Bacardi breezer to Hannah,
watches her roll it over her chest,
collecting beads of nightsweat.
he breathes slow, thick,
paws his sneaker against brick
wall, pushes towards her,
soft-licks her damp neck.


Flagtown
Under a hot night full of
bullets and flags, we sleep
in projects etched with
coarse pencils,
my red-boned angel with
twitching haunches, lean-
flanked — eyelashes lush
enough to net nightmoths
to keep them from waking
the calmdeath of our
calmbreath —
as I patrol shadows & silhouettes alone,
heater hiss like a
viper coiled to my right — I
am tiny,
cold-handed, brave
— I will cut you open to keep us
safe.


Cyclone
Late July. Angel, a shirtless Pied Piper,
leads a straggle of kids to the F train —
Rafi, Kayla, Nicky, Sofia, and Desiree
cling to poles like a cluster of robust grapes.
At Coney Island, Angel rubs baby oil on Hannah’s
gold shoulders. Behind them, the old Cyclone looms.
Kayla & Rafi bury Angel ~ pat-pat-pat in lumpy sand.
A plastic cup leaks lightning-water on his torso,
and Angel erupts, half-man, half-volcano,
grabs a kid under each arm, two footballs
he touchdowns in water. Hannah follows — he gives chase,
she screams, her feet slap saltwater beads into her braids —
she scampers, laughing past the Ukrainian hot dog lady
who smokes & grins, mistaking them for family.


Musk
Half-wilting in summer heat,
Hannah insists on silk dresses, pink barrettes.
Part of her is young, green, vain,
causes boys to drop jaw, whistle, swivel.
She’s drunk off her own scent.
Angel’s a pirate-paladin ~
pure, deadly chivalrous. When Sitta jeers
a nasty slur on the side,
Angel flicks a box cutter for her honor,
ready to kill, gut, die. Hannah reins him
in ~ No, not tonight, babybaby.
Please. He’s not worth it.
But you are, Angel says. She smells his sweat.
She’s damp, her panties wet.
At night, she kisses his temples,
drinks his musk, as he takes her.
Again & again.


Sunsets, Songs, Pearls
Mmmm ~ slow down all the moments
she has his head to her chest at sunset,
nursing him, mothering him, consoling him, stroking his fade
trying to keep him from killing himself slowly, fading away
into grief or pipes or blunts or beers or rage —
she holds him, and he holds her. Babysoft tender.
Stroke each other’s hair like bold kids,
like first ~ time lovers.
Angel, ay ~ he loves to sing into her ears!
His high falsetto crooning Marc Anthony
or Jerry Rivera classics by her baby hair ~ “aquel viejo
motel” ~ or “cara de niño, con alma de hombre” ~ they hold
each other precious as gold Tahitian pearls
in a world that doesn’t value their true worth.


Cocolivio
cocolivio one two three
one two three one two three!
how easy it used to be to fling
your arms round a pretty
young thing, squeeze tight as
a balloon right
before popping, no breath,
just you & her, hot, panting,
other kids blown like
dandelion dust
over tufts of dry grass
till googie’s mom window-yells,
angelito — déjala! cuídate!
and you let go, run free — a
car barely misses you
gunning Hart Street —


Running
Running! Christ, he gets stopped for running down
Wyckoff Avenue at 4:00 a.m.
by undercover cops who shove him,
spread him, grab his balls, pat him down
against brick. Officer Sanchez frowns
while Angel shakes his head and says,
I’m late for work, man. I load trucks at Boar’s Head,
near Jones Street. They let him go, the sound
of tires slick against wet concrete,
their sirens stupidly wailing. He gets
to work — but too late. They let him go.