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

He trudges

home. Slow. Kicks a soaked garbage bag. Spent.

Rain pelts him in hard sheets. Sleepless,

jobless, again. Four days left to pay this month’s rent.

Abuela

First time Angel takes Hannah

to his abuela’s, Hannah knows

it’s special, cuz he ironed

a button-down shirt & Polo khakis.

They step light into Paloma’s fourth-floor walk-up.

Hannah sees glass beads, chipped ceramic

Jesuses, a plastic-covered sofa, blue gurgles

from a dank aquarium. Mira,

says Paloma. Ven acá. Hola,

señora, Hannah tries. Ay!

Hablas español!

Paloma’s smile widens

to flash gold,

two crescent-moon eyes.

Cocho

Cocho burns buildings. His lazy eye

is red. His laughter, metallic.

Hannah listens as Angel’s cousin brags —

how he doused a tire, rolled it into Boar’s Head,

where trucks dock at night — a scratched-out

section of Bushwick, no lucky numbers, railroad track eaten

by asphalt. Hiss of lighter fluid. Fume. All dead beef burning —

it maddens the sky with rank smoke.

All windows south of Williamsburg slam shut.

Hannah nightmares: she’s a blackbird

over a burning Brooklyn, a copse of tenements

licked in blazes…below, Angel, a cheetah

singed in flame…he looks up. Bares fang —

she caws…this far, he can’t hear her cry his name —

No.

Why? Why not? I can’t. I can’t do it

anymore, Angel, it’s not glamorous,

not sexy, not cool.

To bolt outta bed 4:20 in the morning

cuz a gunshot or a junkie stumbling

on our fire escape, a hand trying to unlock our

bedroom window…no. No more madness. I can’t

breathe, can’t relax, can’t think!

Don’t feel safe. We all want outta

this place, we all want

Grace. It’s not you. Baby.

It’s not me.

It’s the city.

Look.

Please.

Look at me.

Bushwick

Every part of Brooklyn has a motto ~

Do or die, Bed-Stuy; Brownsville, Never

run, never will ~ but here, Buuuushwiick,

stretched long as an echo or a prayer or a dream

in nightclubs like a low hum ~ to counter bullet-

like chants of L.E.S.! L.E.S.! Bushwick is my heart

— this little place across da bridge, navigate

backstreets & deserted alleys & run

smack into her ~ she slaps you awake with her

sass. Gold-hooped lindas and brass-knuckled boys,

Latin Kings & Nietas with gold teeth and holy beads,

I know these blocks ~ these blocks own me. I

can walk down any street, duck into a doorway,

get fed a hot plate, get laid, get high, get dry.

Bushwick. A state of mind. Que bonita bandera,

boricua ~ Puerto Rican flags draped on rusted

fire escapes rustle like stars do all night

in Aibonito, Abuela says, trying to dance & be seen

thru las palmas, and some old hero named

José Martí winks, nailed to a wooden beam

in Tío’s makeshift candy store, at the sad, jangly

chords of the tiburón Pedro

(not Navaja) crooning jíbaro cantos on Lucky’s

busted guitar, borracho, Abuela shaking her metal

maraca, Titi Lilo ululating to shake spirits

out da rafters, bare bulb dangling, clapping

to a homemade, Taíno-tainted, conquistador-

stained music that crescent-moons abuela’s eyes.

Lazy Sunday. Paloma remembers la isla to Hannah

in her laced-up formica kitchen,

draining sweet Bustelo coffee thru

that nylon sock, wiping hands on her blue apron.

How in Aibonito, Abuelo used to hack cocos

on her front step with a machete

so her nietos could drink sweet-water

dulce, tan dulce, straight from its brown cup

(before he left, the cabrón, she laughs),

and not far away, Las Tetas de Cayey, lush

mountains dubbed such cuz

they swell like two round

breasts ~ ay, men, Paloma sighs.

Can’t they think of anything else?

Jesus

Too many Jesuses. Angel’s getting restless —

left leg shaking, hunched over joystick.

Jesus on the calendar, glowing Jesus on the wall, mini-Jesus

decked out in robes & cane, herding sheep on top of the dusty tv. Let’s

go. Let’s be out, ma. He catches Hannah

on her way to the bathroom. Why? She sucks her teeth,

motions out the barred window ~ Just

cuz. She groans. She knows. Blue sky. Wind. He’s a

pent-up lion, needs to prowl

his streets, stalk territory, be game,

be prey, be chased, give chase. Be live. Be wild.

But Hannah likes the cluster of saints

on shelves, old lace tablecloths, warm~gold

light, and most of all, Paloma’s winking smile.

Love 101

These are the ways you love a man, in the details

~ cooking his eggs well done,

but not burnt, moving his radio to the shower

cuz you know he likes his Hot 97 in the

morning, drying your feet before stepping out the tub

cuz he can’t stand a wet floor, letting him hold open

all doors, walk on the sidewalk facing street for some

chivalry that says, you “ain’t for sale,” dealing with phone bills

& unopened junk mail, kissing slow, from crown to

toes, all 126 of his freckles, his 22 scars, telling him,

~ I love you, under-the-star-you ~ never teasing

his too-early-to-be-balding temples, popping his pimples,

watching his eyelids shift in sleep,

moving closer, like you’re his, for all Time, to keep.

Cocaine & Cheeseburgers

Cocaine or cheeseburgers…

Hannah laughs watching Angel half-nelson Ariel

& spray him with a Super Soaker between

customers in the midday lull. She tries math —

one week flipping burgers is 40 hours

5 bucks an hour x 40 is 200

minus taxes = 130 something…he could rake

that in, no sweat, hangin on Crescent, slinging bundles one

Tuesday, no managers, no egos, funny hats, just his tíos,

and Alma gets fed, gets quarters for loosies,

and Angel’s left enough for tokens, movies,

weed, & her late-night cab rides to Queens. She sighs

as she watches him sell another sly handshake.

…how can you beat that and argue for Mickey D’s?

Hunger

After working on an empty stomach,

Angel looks forward to Tuesday nights

when King palms him his jackpot —

a bouquet of twenties rippling

in a soft, green fan ~ plllrrr.

It bulges, making him twice the man.

For seven days, he’s a Puerto Rican Santa ~

medicina para Alma, a Key Food bag stuffed

with Oscar Mayer turkey meat, Wonder bread, munchies,

a Game Boy for Rafi, high-top Reeboks for Soli…

Okay, maybe not Santa…

He squints at a sailboat under the bridge,

imagines old man Jesus with his seven loaves, arms

outstretched, as if he could feed them all.

Rafi

8:00 p.m. Angel grabs Rafi midrun in Freeze Tag,

under the silhouette of Howard Housing’s projects

in ghost-dusk. You take your pills? No. Angel frowns. Go get them.

Rafi dashes up the