Angel & Hannah by Ishle Park (best romance ebooks TXT) 📕

could not adore such a soft-spoken sweetie?

Left shoulder blade tattooed with a jester,

mouth full of hilarious smut — Hey, let’s take a shower, he entreats,

my tongue’ll be the sponge. A gum-snapping

goddess of Lust winks over Angel’s bed, agreeing,

Love is the funniest! She lures

the two to locked bedrooms. Alas ~ in a few, he cheats.

So, she cheats, and they brawl, and Angel gets locked up.

Hannah works late shifts to pay his Rikers bail.

Far away she hears her mother’s voice,

forcing her awake — You can’t save a lost boy —

her breath sounds hot & stern.

But young lovers scar hard and take

each other’s hearts for ransom. They appear

so cool from afar…up close, their small hands shake.

Graduation

South of campus, Angel strays

behind a mimosa tree, blurred

like a sepia photo, a secret.

Hannah bobs in a sea of royal-blue

caps & gowns. Angel frowns

down at his two-dollar bodega-rose.

Everyone’s armed with exotic bouquets —

calla lily, iris, tulip. Angel

breaks a thorn off his prickly stem.

Hannah’s handed her diploma onstage —

his throat stirs. She smiles,

hugs an oldwhitelady tight,

and snaps pictures with her Kin,

miles away from him.

Jones Beach

They trail behind his cousins on the shore, till Chino

becomes one black speck, Jessie, another. Stripping sandals for fun,

they run barefoot into ice-blue, see-through, sailboat

water, no seaweed, dirty needles like Orchard Beach

or Beach Ninety-eighth, Latin Kings with black-gold-black

necklaces glinting on collarbones like silent threats to Nietas.

None of that old danger — just water, up to their chests.

They reach a point where their toes don’t touch the sand.

Dip in and out of salt, their breath ragged now.

The undertow yanks their thighs with her cold hand,

grips them down, down, she panics, to death —

Hannah gasps. Sinks. Angel grips her neck —

throws her up and forward — Swim!

Onshore, they choke up liquid ropes of ocean.

Angel. Angel.

You saved me — she admits.

Eden (Hannah)

with you i’m not a girl

with small duties file

cuticles carry groceries

with you i unfurl

like Eve i can kill or heal

with my mouth and hands

turn a bed into a lightning-

filled tent steal

deep inside your

skin bloom stars

inside till you smell

like me

i burn like you kin

to our blood’s

desire to flee from

Eden

Virginity

He ooo-oohs her in DeKalb’s train

station, takes her hand, lugs her JanSport bag

all the way to Hart Street in Timberlands, do-rag

tight round his forehead. Her hair, a horse’s mane

dolled with spit curls just for him. She lies

to her mother, says she’ll be praying at a Korean church

retreat. Instead, she kneels before Angel for her First

Time in a white peekaboo nightie.

His mother, Alma, lays in the sickroom next door.

Blue light falls over their skin in strips.

He kisses all ten of her chipped toes. Her hip bones.

The wooden floor begins to creak. She winces.

Clenches her fists into yellow rosebuds, stuffs her mouth with a pillow,

so his mother, next room over, can sleep.

Mute, she takes her first lover.

It has to be this way, no other.

Summer Break

Grains of light sift over Wyckoff

Avenue, dusting strollers shoved

by thick-hipped mamis with slick, gelled hair.

Tattered triangular flags blow and click

like sharp teeth above all heads.

Angel struts, clasping Hannah’s fingers.

A cool wind ripples his undershirt,

dares to lift her skirt. Young fools with easy

grins, they stroll loose-hipped down Hart

Street, say wassup to boys ribboning D’s Phat Beatz, Sal’s Pizzeria.

Young street king and queen; everyone knows

his name: Pssst…mira Angel y la China,

they hiss. But the two own the block —

walk straight into a hot wind.

I slept but my heart was awake.

Listen! My lover is knocking.

~ Song of Songs

II.

Verano

Summer

For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring,

lives churned & cut like ’copter blades whirring

across a bleak Bushwick sky — Hannah’s disowned,

left with only Angel’s arms for a home —

Rafi snores between them in the cramped twin bed,

they’re more than lovers now; they’re surrogate parents.

Deep in Bushwick, they decide to rent a small one-bedroom,

cook pots of arroz con pollo together and soon,

warmth spills into their lives like a late noon sun,

but the beauty dries out almost as soon as it’s begun,

cuz Angel’s fam crashes at their crib, makes a mess of it,

Hannah throws clothes, plates, hour-long bitching fits —

they inherit the sins and vices of their folks, no heat,

their hearts & apartment grow cold —

they cut each other to bone / no more tenderness to bleed —

like a hot wind, she scorches his earth and leaves —

Split

I’m leaving to live with Angel, Hannah says un-

der her breath. Her father sits with fists

clenched on the kitchen counter. He twists

his mouth into a sad grin. Her mother waits,

gripping doorway. She prays

her husband won’t kill her daughter, grab wrists,

bend them into mercy, bash his fist

into her baby’s baby skin. He takes

a whisk from his blue inhaler. Air is hot, un-

bearable, thick…If you…disown me, apa, I…I

understand. But I can’t…stop…

loving this man. Hannah weeps. Presses

her hand on her apa’s knee. He drops

his head. Sobs. Why…why me?

Moving

She packs her dresses while her dad’s

at work. Slams CD cases till they crack, white lightning down Mary’s face.

Doesn’t stand & look at white

bedroom walls, no, it’s all done in a hot rush,

fire burning her Nikes

to get the hell out. Fuck this house,

she seethes. House of broken plates,

torn hair, han, misery.

She shoves handfuls of socks, quar-

ters, thongs into her JanSport,

watches the clock, calls Four Twos,

looks back out at the quaint,

two-story wooden houses,

bird-filled, tree-lined streets.

No one sees her leave.

Grace & Grief

(Halmoni)

There she goes.

Another split.

Split nara, split family.

Is our fate a legacy of

grief? A history of han

for eternity?

My ancestral tree

shredded like

rice paper

in a hard immigrant wind. Aigu.

Wild girls —

what mother-pain!

She’s my penance — she’s

me, fifty years later, still hardheaded.

Stunning,

headed straight for

tragedy she thinks is Love

or Destiny.

But to spit her

into the city-jungle,

among ghosts, demons,

thieves? No place for a

jashikeh. Aiyu. Look how

my son and his wife salt

& smoke in separate

rooms. Tombs. God, what

is this world?

Are we all guaranteed moments of grace

as well as grief? Little girl-fool,