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. 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 concrete stairwell.
Some minutes later, he emerges: a kid,
untethered and free playing tag.
But Angel knows what lurks under car hulls,
Wolverine-clawed, waiting to snatch Rafi by his ankles
and drag him as prey into its lair. Angel stands guard,
hawk over nest, guarding his brother-prince.
After tag, he buys Rafi a ham sandwich and hot
chocolate at the bodega. And a sour apple Blow Pop for fifteen
cents.
No, he thinks. You can’t take him yet. Not without a fight.
I still need him, this side of the light.
Paloma
Paloma’s apartment is a way station for lost angels
tucked deep in Brownsville’s Howard Housing’s projects.
He slips in with dawn, ignores the little Jesuses
praying on sills, dead cousins stiff in army suits,
or pretty-in-pink tías framed on wooden walls.
Adobo steams the kitchen as Paloma stirs.
Paloma, his abuela, always readying
a hot plate for a hungry mouth, tucking her own griefs
into her netted bun. Angel shifts on the plastic-covered couch.
Stares out the barred window.
Plays Nintendo with Rafi till humid night falls. As he grabs his keys,
he asks Paloma with an outstretched hand, Can you bless me?
She kisses his forehead, gives him a bendición, mijo, instead of money.
Nintendo
Rafi hunches forward,
murders buttons. His teeth bite
his lower lip, he snarls as he swings
Bowser 360 degrees into an abyss, green-
fire burning his glasses, he cheers, Yes! I
beat him!
Even the tv sings mechanical praise
and crowns him…Before I go
to the next level, he says, inhaling deep.
He cracks his boyknuckles and grins.
Hannah grins back, tousles his hair. Good
luck, Rafi, she says. Yeah. I need it. He smirks.
She winces. Outside, sunlight dies
slow while his wild sixteen-bit dream begins ~
she sits back to watch Rafi fight his dragon
with flicks of his small joystick.
Paloma’s Prayer
Blessed be my daughter, Alma de Jesus, mother of Angel,
Soledad, y Rafael…rest in peace, Scarface Willy,
once married to Angel’s second cousin Jessie
who made the block’s best pernil,
y por favor, disculpe a Tío Rafael,
un alcohólico y former Latin King released
from Rikers only two weeks before he gave el SIDA
Angel & Hannah Page 4
