Angel & Hannah

He trudges
home. Slow. Kicks a soaked garbage bag. Spent.
Rain pelts him in hard sheets. Sleepless,
jobless, again. Four days left to pay this month’s rent.

Abuela
First time Angel takes Hannah
to his abuela’s, Hannah knows
it’s special, cuz he ironed
a button-down shirt & Polo khakis.
They step light into Paloma’s fourth-floor walk-up.
Hannah sees glass beads, chipped ceramic
Jesuses, a plastic-covered sofa, blue gurgles
from a dank aquarium. Mira,
says Paloma. Ven acá. Hola,
señora, Hannah tries. Ay!
Hablas español!
Paloma’s smile widens
to flash gold,
two crescent-moon eyes.


Cocho
Cocho burns buildings. His lazy eye
is red. His laughter, metallic.
Hannah listens as Angel’s cousin brags —
how he doused a tire, rolled it into Boar’s Head,
where trucks dock at night — a scratched-out
section of Bushwick, no lucky numbers, railroad track eaten
by asphalt. Hiss of lighter fluid. Fume. All dead beef burning —
it maddens the sky with rank smoke.
All windows south of Williamsburg slam shut.
Hannah nightmares: she’s a blackbird
over a burning Brooklyn, a copse of tenements
licked in blazes…below, Angel, a cheetah
singed in flame…he looks up. Bares fang —
she caws…this far, he can’t hear her cry his name —


No.
Why? Why not? I can’t. I can’t do it
anymore, Angel, it’s not glamorous,
not sexy, not cool.
To bolt outta bed 4:20 in the morning
cuz a gunshot or a junkie stumbling
on our fire escape, a hand trying to unlock our
bedroom window…no. No more madness. I can’t
breathe, can’t relax, can’t think!
Don’t feel safe. We all want outta
this place, we all want
Grace. It’s not you. Baby.
It’s not me.
It’s the city.
Look.
Please.
Look at me.


Bushwick
Every part of Brooklyn has a motto ~
Do or die, Bed-Stuy; Brownsville, Never
run, never will ~ but here, Buuuushwiick,
stretched long as an echo or a prayer or a dream
in nightclubs like a low hum ~ to counter bullet-
like chants of L.E.S.! L.E.S.! Bushwick is my heart
— this little place across da bridge, navigate
backstreets & deserted alleys & run
smack into her ~ she slaps you awake with her
sass. Gold-hooped lindas and brass-knuckled boys,
Latin Kings & Nietas with gold teeth and holy beads,
I know these blocks ~ these blocks own me. I
can walk down any street, duck into a doorway,
get fed a hot plate, get laid, get high, get dry.
Bushwick. A state of mind. Que bonita bandera,
boricua ~ Puerto Rican flags draped on rusted
fire escapes rustle like stars do all night
in Aibonito, Abuela says, trying to dance & be seen
thru las palmas, and some old hero named
José Martí winks, nailed to a wooden beam
in Tío’s makeshift candy store, at the sad, jangly
chords of the tiburón Pedro
(not Navaja) crooning jíbaro cantos on Lucky’s
busted guitar, borracho, Abuela shaking her metal
maraca, Titi Lilo ululating to shake spirits
out da rafters, bare bulb dangling, clapping
to a homemade, Taíno-tainted, conquistador-
stained music that crescent-moons abuela’s eyes.
Lazy Sunday. Paloma remembers la isla to Hannah
in her laced-up formica kitchen,
draining sweet Bustelo coffee thru
that nylon sock, wiping hands on her blue apron.
How in Aibonito, Abuelo used to hack cocos
on her front step with a machete
so her nietos could drink sweet-water
dulce, tan dulce, straight from its brown cup
(before he left, the cabrón, she laughs),
and not far away, Las Tetas de Cayey, lush
mountains dubbed such cuz
they swell like two round
breasts ~ ay, men, Paloma sighs.
Can’t they think of anything else?


Jesus
Too many Jesuses. Angel’s getting restless —
left leg shaking, hunched over joystick.
Jesus on the calendar, glowing Jesus on the wall, mini-Jesus
decked out in robes & cane, herding sheep on top of the dusty tv. Let’s
go. Let’s be out, ma. He catches Hannah
on her way to the bathroom. Why? She sucks her teeth,
motions out the barred window ~ Just
cuz. She groans. She knows. Blue sky. Wind. He’s a
pent-up lion, needs to prowl
his streets, stalk territory, be game,
be prey, be chased, give chase. Be live. Be wild.
But Hannah likes the cluster of saints
on shelves, old lace tablecloths, warm~gold
light, and most of all, Paloma’s winking smile.


Love 101
These are the ways you love a man, in the details
~ cooking his eggs well done,
but not burnt, moving his radio to the shower
cuz you know he likes his Hot 97 in the
morning, drying your feet before stepping out the tub
cuz he can’t stand a wet floor, letting him hold open
all doors, walk on the sidewalk facing street for some
chivalry that says, you “ain’t for sale,” dealing with phone bills
& unopened junk mail, kissing slow, from crown to
toes, all 126 of his freckles, his 22 scars, telling him,
~ I love you, under-the-star-you ~ never teasing
his too-early-to-be-balding temples, popping his pimples,
watching his eyelids shift in sleep,
moving closer, like you’re his, for all Time, to keep.


Cocaine & Cheeseburgers
Cocaine or cheeseburgers…
Hannah laughs watching Angel half-nelson Ariel
& spray him with a Super Soaker between
customers in the midday lull. She tries math —
one week flipping burgers is 40 hours
5 bucks an hour x 40 is 200
minus taxes = 130 something…he could rake
that in, no sweat, hangin on Crescent, slinging bundles one
Tuesday, no managers, no egos, funny hats, just his tíos,
and Alma gets fed, gets quarters for loosies,
and Angel’s left enough for tokens, movies,
weed, & her late-night cab rides to Queens. She sighs
as she watches him sell another sly handshake.
…how can you beat that and argue for Mickey D’s?


Hunger
After working on an empty stomach,
Angel looks forward to Tuesday nights
when King palms him his jackpot —
a bouquet of twenties rippling
in a soft, green fan ~ plllrrr.
It bulges, making him twice the man.
For seven days, he’s a Puerto Rican Santa ~
medicina para Alma, a Key Food bag stuffed
with Oscar Mayer turkey meat, Wonder bread, munchies,
a Game Boy for Rafi, high-top Reeboks for Soli…
Okay, maybe not Santa…
He squints at a sailboat under the bridge,
imagines old man Jesus with his seven loaves, arms
outstretched, as if he could feed them all.


Rafi
8:00 p.m. Angel grabs Rafi midrun in Freeze Tag,
under the silhouette of Howard Housing’s projects
in ghost-dusk. You take your pills? No. Angel frowns. Go get them.
Rafi dashes up the