Bronx Masquerade: List 2

I have been here before
choking in solitude,
but this time
when all the earth
is hollow as a bell,
I hold one end,
ring it,
and you come—
a pale-skinned surprise,
a friend.

We all thought Miss Fifth Avenue was self-confidence with a capital S, but her poem was all about wishing she could make herself over.

Sheila Gamberoni came out of the stall, and the minute she did, Judianne slipped back behind her usual scowl and turned mean.

Sisters under the skin,
we meet in the mirror,
our images superimposed
for one split second.

Ready or not,
I peer into your soul
and dive deep,
splash-landing
in a pool of pain
as salty and familiar
as the tears on my cheek.

I spun around, more aggravated than angry, and said, “Look, it’s just hair. It’s not magic, so don’t go rubbing it for good luck. Trust me, it hasn't brought me any."

I spun around, more aggravated than angry, and said, “Look, it’s just hair. It’s not magic, so don’t go rubbing it for good luck. Trust me, it hasn’t brought me any.” Raynard stifled a laugh.

I’d walked past a group of would-be girlfriends who sucked their teeth at me and said my name like it was curdled milk they couldn’t wait to spit out.

I’ve tried dressing down in T-shirts and baggy pants, with no makeup, and it’s still either “Come here, pretty mama” from cocky boys like Wesley who I have absolutely no use for, or getting grief from girls I used to want as friends.

“You can borrow it from the library,” I said. “Soon as I return it, that is.” We all laughed. I’m notorious for turning library books in late.

My heart beats
like a talking drum,
my mom hums to Bessie
just like yours,
the brothers in my dreams
are pure ebony,
and blue-black grandmother arms
like the ones that cradled my ancestors
have often cradled me.

My heart beats
like a talking drum,
my mom hums to Bessie
just like yours,
the brothers in my dreams
are pure ebony,
and blue-black grandmother arms
like the ones that cradled my ancestors
have often cradled me.

We talked about superficial judgments, how people look at you and think they know who you are, what you are, how they put you in a box: jock, china doll, whatever.

Make no mistake,
I make no exceptions
For Cracker Jack
Or Christmas glitter.

Devon shook his head when he saw me standing in the lunch line yesterday, fingering an imaginary fret, making the appropriate sound effects.

Devon shook his head when he saw me standing in the lunch line yesterday, fingering an imaginary fret, making the appropriate sound effects.

I went back to my invisible string playing to keep my fingers limber for later.

I stared down at my shoes, counting. One. Two. Three. Four. By the time I reached ten, I realized counting was not going to suffice.

A still, small voice reminded me to return good for evil, reminded me that my plans for the future do not include fisticuffs or expulsion.

Either they’re trying to draw me into an infantile game of The Dozens so we can trade insults left and right...

If only Leon and his friends knew how lame their antics are.

He sized up the passengers,
chose his prey:
a wrinkled woman at the tail end
of her Geritol years
who fears her own shadow
with good reason.

He lunged at her,
demanded her cash
to replenish his stash
of powdered death.

Light streamed from His fingers,
singed anyone caught without
a robe of righteousness
across his back.

I turn up the collar
of my white robe,
relieved to know
God’s got me covered
'cause I'm good,
but not that good.

Raul bows deep, like some actor in an old-time movie, then struts to his seat.

Not that all his preaching will get him anywhere, seeing as I’m an atheist.

Just let me be rock
wedged into the earth or sea
tidal waves crashing over me
while I remain intact—
no split at the core,
more buffed than bruised.

I’ve felt that way a couple of times. Once, when the undertaker carried my pops out of here.

Then there’s me, sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb.

I’m the black sheep, anyway. The only girl in the family who wants a career instead of babies.

The only one who doesn’t think they’re all lazy and shiftless.

So of course he thinks I’m an idiot for wanting to go into social work to help minorities.

Maybe they’re afraid to get too close to someone who might actually hug them, heaven forbid.

“My name is —.
And who are you?"
is the spade we sink
into this foreign, hue-man soil
to see what nuggets
we can dig up
what history
what ethnic derivation
what concentration of
cultural genes we can use
to weigh and measure each other