Elizabeth Acevedo

A truth
you did not want
to know
can rot & grow mold
in the pit
of your stomach,
can sour
every taste
you’ve ever had,
can cast a stench
so bad you forget
you’ve ever known
a sweet thing.

Dreams are like the pieces of fluff that get caught in your hair;
they stand out for a moment, but eventually you wash them
away, or long fingers reach in & pluck them out

I am beginning to learn

that life-altering news

is often like a premature birth:

ill-timed, catching someone unaware,

emotionally unprepared

& often where they shouldn’t be:

He must have realized

his laugh was like one of those paper shredders

making a sad confetti of my hopes.

He did not apologize.

I never stopped being my parents’ steady daughter.

Who did her chores & bothered no one.

Even now, that is not a habit I know how to break

Swimming might be the closest to flying

a human being can get. There is something

about your body displacing water

in order to propel through space that makes you feel

Godtouched. That makes me understand evolution,

that we really must have crawled up from the sea.

I am theirs. You can see them on me.

But I am also all mine, mostly.

Playing chess taught me a queen is both:

deadly & graceful, poised & ruthless.

Quiet & cunning. A queen

offers her hand to be kissed,

& can form it into a fist

while smiling the whole damn time.

“Just let yourself mourn, sweetie.
You can’t run from what hurts you,
or like a dog smelling fear,
that grief will just keep chasing with ever-sharp teeth.”
I go back to stacking books.

I am from a playground place.
Our oceans that we need for fish
are cleared so extranjeros can kite surf.
Our land, lush & green, is bought
& sold to foreign powers so they can build
luxury hotels for others to rest their heads.
The bananas & yucca & sugarcane
farmed & harvested, exported,
while kids thank God for every little scrap