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

I bless you

tonight with a sorrowless

sleep,

but tomorrow —

and beyond, Hannah-ya

what you sow,

you reap.

Knickerbocker

Hannah’s first day in Bushwick:

sunstars wink on car roofs like gardenias.

Wind flaps tabletops.

Out every open window, Jerry Rivera croons.

Hannah sits outside at Sal’s pizzeria.

Her skin and the brick, warmed red.

She watches two Latin Kings flex.

It’s a new town, new smells. Adobo, saltlust.

She’s see-through, an outline waiting to be colored in.

Please. One moment a day —

en paz — a light, cool wind.

Today, no evil.

Even El Jefe gums a tune

as he rattles down Knickerbocker Avenue.

Home?

Funny. Here, in Maria’s cramped bedroom

with its bare bulb & peeling walls, a rat

scuttling by lil’ Juanito’s minibike, three fat kids

plumped underneath her like pillows,

Maria stretched out like a queen in short-shorts

popping seedless green grapes into every

kid’s open mouth, Tito’s laughter,

window open to car screeches,

slaps of Bereco’s & Angel’s domino tiles,

clink of distant beers, an iron bar

in Hannah’s stiff spine melts…

she softens here, is almost home here,

nestled in chaos,

a fawn hidden in high grass.

Flock

One reason she loves living in Brooklyn

is everyone’s kids: Alejandro, Joey, Sofia, Kayla, and lil’ Juanito

flock to her like tough, cute, baby gray-

gold ducklings. Angie’s youngest one is a lost starling

adopted by the young and scrabble-beaked.

They sing her Aaliyah songs, clamber over her shy frame,

pluck tufts of fluff from a futon couch to decorate

her hair with a tiara of wool and feathers.

Hannah does her homework while da other girls sniff & smoke,

watch old Tom & Jerry reruns & new Disney classics together,

whirl kids like tiny planets over the living room.

With small hands they drag her into bunk beds,

make blanket forts & play, far from the hard-eyed titas in the kitchen.

She feels blessed when Alejandro’s tiny feet slap like webs over linoleum. Titi!!

He stretches baby arms towards her neck. She flies him up to kiss his brown ringlets.

Disco

Angel, you are hilarious,

she giggles, spellbound, laying

nekked as he winds atop the mattress,

grinding hips like clockwork —

sssst!!! He sizzles, chile,

when a melody hits him

one Junebug afternoon: a distant reggae tune

thru someone’s speakers like action, tender satisfaction —

mmm, Angel, you crazy!

he closes his eyes & slow-dances himself, magic —

he brings disco balls, confetti,

his body’s pent-up sadness,

unwinding in a serpentine, one-man show. He throws

off sparks seen from a passing L,

soul-light gold as a summer sun

melting down a brownstone window.

Heat

friday nite on Hart St!

hot enuf for kids to loot a corner hydrant

for its rainbows with josé’s wrench,

rivering gutters, girls drenched

in tight tanks with curly hair

slink by while boys hiss,

ay Díos, madre mía, Cristo Santo,

as if saints laved in starry half-light can’t

compare. out on his stoop, Angel passes

a strawberry Bacardi breezer to Hannah,

watches her roll it over her chest,

collecting beads of nightsweat.

he breathes slow, thick,

paws his sneaker against brick

wall, pushes towards her,

soft-licks her damp neck.

Flagtown

Under a hot night full of

bullets and flags, we sleep

in projects etched with

coarse pencils,

my red-boned angel with

twitching haunches, lean-

flanked — eyelashes lush

enough to net nightmoths

to keep them from waking

the calmdeath of our

calmbreath —

as I patrol shadows & silhouettes alone,

heater hiss like a

viper coiled to my right — I

am tiny,

cold-handed, brave

— I will cut you open to keep us

safe.

Cyclone

Late July. Angel, a shirtless Pied Piper,

leads a straggle of kids to the F train —

Rafi, Kayla, Nicky, Sofia, and Desiree

cling to poles like a cluster of robust grapes.

At Coney Island, Angel rubs baby oil on Hannah’s

gold shoulders. Behind them, the old Cyclone looms.

Kayla & Rafi bury Angel ~ pat-pat-pat in lumpy sand.

A plastic cup leaks lightning-water on his torso,

and Angel erupts, half-man, half-volcano,

grabs a kid under each arm, two footballs

he touchdowns in water. Hannah follows — he gives chase,

she screams, her feet slap saltwater beads into her braids —

she scampers, laughing past the Ukrainian hot dog lady

who smokes & grins, mistaking them for family.

Musk

Half-wilting in summer heat,

Hannah insists on silk dresses, pink barrettes.

Part of her is young, green, vain,

causes boys to drop jaw, whistle, swivel.

She’s drunk off her own scent.

Angel’s a pirate-paladin ~

pure, deadly chivalrous. When Sitta jeers

a nasty slur on the side,

Angel flicks a box cutter for her honor,

ready to kill, gut, die. Hannah reins him

in ~ No, not tonight, babybaby.

Please. He’s not worth it.

But you are, Angel says. She smells his sweat.

She’s damp, her panties wet.

At night, she kisses his temples,

drinks his musk, as he takes her.

Again & again.

Sunsets, Songs, Pearls

Mmmm ~ slow down all the moments

she has his head to her chest at sunset,

nursing him, mothering him, consoling him, stroking his fade

trying to keep him from killing himself slowly, fading away

into grief or pipes or blunts or beers or rage —

she holds him, and he holds her. Babysoft tender.

Stroke each other’s hair like bold kids,

like first ~ time lovers.

Angel, ay ~ he loves to sing into her ears!

His high falsetto crooning Marc Anthony

or Jerry Rivera classics by her baby hair ~ “aquel viejo

motel” ~ or “cara de niño, con alma de hombre” ~ they hold

each other precious as gold Tahitian pearls

in a world that doesn’t value their true worth.

Cocolivio

cocolivio one two three

one two three one two three!

how easy it used to be to fling

your arms round a pretty

young thing, squeeze tight as

a balloon right

before popping, no breath,

just you & her, hot, panting,

other kids blown like

dandelion dust

over tufts of dry grass

till googie’s mom window-yells,

angelito — déjala! cuídate!

and you let go, run free — a

car barely misses you

gunning Hart Street —

Running

Running! Christ, he gets stopped for running down

Wyckoff Avenue at 4:00 a.m.

by undercover cops who shove him,

spread him, grab his balls, pat him down

against brick. Officer Sanchez frowns

while Angel shakes his head and says,

I’m late for work, man. I load trucks at Boar’s Head,

near Jones Street. They let him go, the sound

of tires slick against wet concrete,

their sirens stupidly wailing. He gets

to work — but too late. They let him go.