Elizabeth Acevedo

When the bottle of hot sauce shattered in the kitchen
he stood in the doorframe, shook his head at the mess.

Not worried if I was injured,
mostly curious at what else it was I'd broken.

You are so clumsy with the things you hold,
he never said.

The red stain on my chest bloomed pungent,
soaked any apology.

I used his shirt, the one I slept in,
to wipe the counter and pale-colored kitchen floor.

That night and the next for a straight week
as he prepared boxes to leave

I hunched and scrubbed the tiles. Couldn't rid myself
of the things that I'd sullied, of the look he left behind.
...

A boy I did not marry   taught me to dance salsa on 2   placed
the fingers of his left hand on my untutored spine; you know what
it's like to become someone's clave


to love for the span of the trombone's long breath he whispered
negra so I spun my heart landing on the rum-covered linoleum
of a nightclub


on what used to be New York Ave in what used to be Chocolate City
I let him turn & spin my name bella negra
his hands were less tender but still I let them roam


when I 1, 2, 3 5, 6, 7 in front of my mirror
I was always la negra defended in the lyric   and you can forgive
searching hands when a mouth swells the biggest ache of your body

into song
...

And although I am a poet, I am not the bullet;
I will not heat-search the soft points.

I am not the coroner who will graze her hand
over naked knees. Who will swish her fingers

in the mouth. Who will flip the body over, her eye a hook
fishing for government-issued lead.

I am not the sidewalk, which is unsurprised
as another cheek scrapes harsh against it.

Although I too enjoy soft palms on me;
enjoy when he rests on my body with a hard breath;
I have clasped
this man inside me and released him again and again,
listening to him die thousands of little deaths.

What is a good metaphor for a woman who loves in a time like this?

I am no scalpel or high thread count sheet. Not a gavel, or hand-painted teacup.
I am neither nor romanced by the streetlamp nor candlelight;
my hands are not an iron, but look, they're hot, look
how I place them in love on his skin
and am still able to unwrinkle his spine.
...