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Angel & Hannah

Page 6

by Ishle Yi Park


  I’m becoming Him.

  She sits alone, half-in-shadow,

  half-in-stark-light.

  Cocaine

  He’s on it bad again.

  It darkens the petals

  under his eyes. All luminous metals

  mined from his skin.

  He fails her ET test —

  fingertip to fingertip,

  she can tell when he’s high

  cuz his blood throbs into hers

  like trainwreck — one hot, wired mess.

  Motherfucker! she spits.

  What the fuck. She hurls a shot glass

  across the linoleum. It splinters into bits.

  At night, she sleeps with her back

  to his bottle-hard

  dick. Both of them

  ground to shards.

  Survive

  She hears stories. Sometimes, her sweet Angel

  is not an angel, when his boys circle up

  to share tales of bravado, of wilding out

  on the trains ~ she stays on the fringes

  of conversation, hears scraps of details

  that make her arm hairs rise — He’s a fighter,

  Googie says. When I got jumped by those

  Nietas, only Angel came to my side —

  It was eight to two, but he rammed that sucka

  with a screwdriver in his side, knocked

  another one’s front tooth out — ooh,

  flaco’s no joke, they laugh. She cringes

  to hear such brutality, she doesn’t like

  what it takes to survive in the streets,

  Why? Why do you do that shit? she asks.

  I do what I gotta do to survive, he says simply.

  Godless

  Because of one mistake —

  no food for breakfast, the girl forgot to say —

  she must stay awake while they

  suck, scrape the baby.

  Small walnut. Hardens, turns

  her back on the world. Nurses

  her hole. Black canyon. No one tell her

  shit. Don’t speak. Leave. Over-

  head lights green, pallid.

  Emptied of godlight. Girl blight.

  Nothing divine. But one nurse sops

  sweat from her forehead, stands by

  the iron bed.

  Grips tight her hand.

  Outside, they shake signs at her —

  half-formed fetuses, spilt. Curdled.

  An urge to murder them.

  Bash feathered hair on concrete. Tell

  them what she knows —

  No one wins, ever.

  The sky gray, indifferent.

  Taxicabs roam;

  stray mongrels.

  She hails one down,

  climbs into its rancid mouth.

  Rolls down window.

  Watches buildings blur.

  Nothing moves inside her.

  God, I wanted to live so

  hard. To feel my body race.

  Bleed. Fly. Instead, I kill the

  best things inside me. Why,

  God? And what curse awaits

  when I’m twenty-five, thirty? What

  scarred, dry belly…my

  future, a curled leaf…

  I’m scared. Nowhere to turn

  but inside. Smaller. Smaller.

  Trying not to burn anyone else

  with my dumb, hot touch.

  God, why won’t Angel turn

  gold? Why ash?

  Nas

  Nobody knows we exist,

  she whispers in the dark.

  Your kind, my kind. They think you live to

  steal cars, I live to sell beer & cigarettes.

  Hannah feels liquid,

  as if she might evaporate if she doesn’t cling

  to Angel’s luminous ribs.

  So? Who cares? he says,

  stroking her messy hair.

  I care. I care.

  She pouts. He sighs & sings a Nas lyric —

  like a blue smoke ~ ring, it halos the air.

  Whose world is this? The world is yours…

  He turns to sleep. She eyes the darkness.

  Paradise (Angel)

  It’s no use.

  Never good enough.

  Never smart enough.

  No matter what I do.

  She’ll never keep a baby of mine —

  all my boys — Sitta, Googie,

  Craze, Flex, Beni, alla

  them got sons — only me left behind.

  With this college girl and her mouth —

  blah blah blah.

  And her hard, little fists —

  she knows I won’t smack her, so I bounce —

  out to Paradise, on Wilson & Starr, where

  Joey waits with a wet kiss

  We split a gram,

  take two long hits

  till stars inside the room get

  dizzy and spin

  My heart’s punched out. It beats

  triple-time, a black punching bag

  knocked into a blur. I

  drink six Coronas as she

  licks my neck.

  My dick is stiff as

  a soldier; it tents

  my Guess jeans. But my lips,

  my hands, my soul — all the rest

  of me is soft. Dead. Limp.

  Joey & Hannah (Hannah)

  No one told me — even tho’

  all these bitches probably knew —

  I had a feeling ~ the way

  she was watching us, laughing a

  little too loud as I sat on Angel’s

  lap in Maria’s kitchen,

  I pinched him hard on his thigh,

  he pinched me back — some

  private fight about nothing — but

  she caught it. Her eyes on our thighs.

  Later, outside, I shoved him

  against a brick wall, piss-drunk, and lied —

  I know, I know what happened —

  he stayed shut, but it spilled

  out his guilty-as-fuck eyes.

  Admit it! Admit it, you

  liar — I punched him

  once, twice, a hundred times

  on his chest, my fists numb,

  then dropped to the curb

  & held my chest so it wouldn’t

  break, rocking, rocking,

  til I was sure I was still

  in one piece. That night, street-glass

  glittered extra hard. I was

  A dead star. Alone in the universe.

  Went back to Maria’s,

  called up the window —

  guess who? this puta waves from the sill,

  grinning! Espera, she says, runs down

  the staircase. I corner her,

  grill — Qué pasó, Joey?

  Qué pasó con Angel? Díme. She plays dumb.

  Angel, mumbling, ella sabe, ella sabe.

  I stood so close I could smell her stank breath,

  could smash her sweet face with my fist,

  but I wanted to give her

  one chance to be decent,

  gimme an answer — instead,

  she stutters, no sé, no sé,

  then runs upstairs. I give chase,

  she hides behind Maria,

  lacing her Reeboks, all of a suddenr />
  this bitch gets brave, talking bout

  voy a matarte, China —

  I said, vamos, let’s do this —

  and only his tías keep us

  apart, splitting the door frame

  with their arms, saying

  nah, nah, it’s late, nena ~

  kids are sleeping ~ and this

  worthless cabrón is standing

  there, dumb-mute,

  unable

  to do shit about

  this mess he started.

  Girlfight, Postfight

  Hannah twists her hair into a tight, low bun.

  Flicks off her hoops. No earlobes ripped in two.

  Joey stubs out her Newport against the brick

  wall, crippling it in a hiss of spark and ash.

  Angel’s cousins tighten round the girls like a

  noose. Bella offers Hannah Vaseline and sneakers.

  She refuses: what will scar will scar.

  Duke coaxes, You better than her. Don’t

  stoop. You got a house, you got a car.

  Hannah spits — Duke, fuck a house. Fuck a

  car. Last night, she stole my Heart.

  Bella blinks, Angel stares.

  The girls strut. Circle. Claws out. Sharp-

  beaked, they clash — a whir of red, furious wings.

  After the fight, Hannah rubs raw aloe

  on the lightning welt down her cheek.

  A smudged mirror reflects a plain, scarred

  face. Like a cratered moon. Outside,

  Angie and Joey gossip, two shrill canaries.

  Angel’s tía yells cállate! over her telenovela’s muted

  violins. Hannah rides the ridge of her scar with her finger.

  These are not my people, she thinks. How his tía watched

  her fight like a gamecock, bet fives, took sides.

  As if she were Angel’s…thing,

  a ten-karat ring slung on his neck.

  Not a soul: tired, small, gleaming.

  A scratched record skips in her head — these are

  not…these are not…my people.

  Enough (Post Girls’ Night)

  While other girls slump on couches,

  hair slipping across cheeks, Bella & Hannah clink

  Coronas into the sink. La Bella, Tía Bella, she winks

  one Cleopatra eye at Hannah, then slouches

  in the kitchen chair, tipping ash. Even with her stomach pouch

  and thick arms, when she blinks slow,

  she’s glamorous as Vanessa del Rio. Hannah’s face is pink,

  flushed as blood in water. She kneads her creased brow.

  It hurts. Bella leans over to stroke her hair

  like a Persian cat. You, she croaks,

  you got it good, girl. Angel, he don’t stare

  at other bitches all day, fuck around, or beat you. So

  stick with him, mami. My nephew, she purrs. He’s a good kid.

  True. Hannah sighs. But is he enough? For me? she wonders, privately.

  She drops her head. Rubs her eyelids.

  Dawn

  The next morning, a garbage truck beeps her awake.

  Bushwick: a city of hangovers, sirens,

  the diesel hum of too-early eighteen-wheelers. Hannah

  watches a plane buzz by the window. It takes

  eight seconds to disappear behind a brownstone. She shakes

  her mussed head. Sunlight warms her hair, lends

  her a red-brown halo. A brown wren

  flits on the sill. She leans over Angel in sleep,

  his body a thin rake, mouth slightly agape, open like an innocent.

  It’s this time. Before words. When the city is a blank sheet

  waiting to be penciled in, when anything seems possible.

  She grazes Angel’s curly fro with her hand.

  Sleeping, he throws his arm around her waist and sighs.

  Mirror

  Hannah stares in the mirror, naked.

  What is it that She has…what is it?

  She touches a strand of hair. Too limp.

  Oily. Her skin doesn’t sheen —

  it’s a bruised peach under this light.

  Her empty womb throbs.

  Slumped shoulders. Sad breasts

  pointed away like two dove’s

  wings, her hull-shaped

  tummy…maybe

  Her hair curls and gleams like polished scrolls of wood.

  Maybe her nut-skin glows. A tight knot in her throat.

  Nothing. Nothing about her shines

  except her eyes. She swallows hard.

  Blinks up at the ceiling to keep

  her liquid light inside.

  One

  At Lucky’s Tattoo Parlor, Hannah sketches the

  blades of her name on tracing paper. .

  One. Meaning One Life. One Love. One Girl. One.

  Scribe presses wax against Angel’s jugular.

  As he readies needle & snaps on gloves,

  Angel finds Hannah’s hand. Squeezes.

  He’s a scared boy at the dentist,

  she thinks, a wince of pity as Angel’s sculpted jaw clenches.

  He stretches the long apology of his neck.

  Black drops, red blood. Black, then blood. Blackblood.

  Scribe carves slow, steadyhanded, thick,

  to Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Under the Bridge.

  Pen grinds. Scribe hums. Hannah sings.

  Angel closes his eyes till parlor lights go dim.

  Da Bronx

  Hannah’s face glows with a strange, eerie light

  above the Xerox — thirty copies of a 250-page

  deposition. She’ll be here all night. She sighs. Working in midtown,

  living in Bushwick, a crazy double life

  she shares with janitors, secretaries, doormen.

  In Brooklyn, blackbrownred boys

  roam streets like wild game, every day is high

  season for cops, every two blocks a hunt, a catch, a kill ~

  or a cage ~ lock ’em up, throw ’em away…

  Yesterday, Gina, an Italian paralegal who chain-

  smokes by the fire escape, said there’s an opening in her building.

  Good people, she puffs. Nunna that crazy shit.

  Up in da Bronx, way up, on the #6, one bedroom.

  Hannah dreams about it on her ride downtown.

  Apt.

  Got it with her good credit!

  One bedroom. Carpets, not wood.

  Oh well, can’t have everything.

  Right off the #6.

  Up, past the hundreds.

  An hour from the city.

  Forty minutes on the express,

  Gina offers. A lifetime

  from Bushwick.

  Hallelujah! Yeah, there’s drugs

  & madness up there too — Hunts Point,

  etc., but Angel don’t know those cats.

  He only hangs with his crew.

  October first move-in date. She can’t wait.

  Rollerblades

  A week before they move to the Bronx,

  Hannah plans a picnic at Central Park.

  If it’s not too cold, they’ll spread a blanket

  on the Great Lawn,

  eat turkey & cheese sandwiches

  with Italian bread, then rollerblade

  at Seventy-second Street, where people


  bop & swing in jazzy circles

  to big headphones. 3:00 p.m. A date.

  She waits with her food-heavy JanSport

  as skaters whirl & turn

  in spandex blurs.

  Dizzy. She smiles,

  bright neon buzzing past her.

  Bullet

  For eight hundred dollars, Leo kills his brother-in-law

  on a Sunday. Sun a switchblade

  paring people to paper-thin slivers; they

  squint, flash in the harsh light. Blaze, tall,

  green-eyed, serenades Jessie on her stoop,

  all pero mami, escúchame, while Leo plays cool diagonal

  across Jefferson Street until he raises his heat.

  His flint-hard face won’t flinch as all

  four shots–brrah-brrah-bbrah-brrah — instar

  Blaze’s bicep. Neck. Shoulder. Chest. Blaze’s jaws open;

  say nothing. Jessie covers her hair, screaming,

  crawls behind the hydrant. Four slugs roll under Googie’s car,

  dead copper bees. Angel’s fist eats

  them like a Venus flytrap. He shoots like a bullet from the scene.

  Arrest

  Her stomach sinks. Beni says,

  He’ll be at Central

  Booking, ma, or at the Seventy-fifth Precinct.

  Catch him before they ship him to the Island.

  Once again the ground

  swells under her feet,

  threatens to capsize her. She’s

  broke. Gives blood

  to get cash, calls Soli a week later,

  goes on an all-night mission

  to find him. What kind of God won’t

  give us a minute’s break before

  letting waves crash down again?

  Hannah talks

  loud & fake with Soli,

  but inside, her heart dull-aches.

  Bail (Angel)

  It’s 5:28 a.m.

  They give me back my shirt, my

  jeans, my Guess watch, and

  Hannah

  bails me out. She’s taking me

  home. Never knew I missed

  the smell of her neck until

  she hugged me.

  Didn’t know

  I missed

 

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