Cassandra Reinhart

 

I sifted through old pictures of

A summer spent away.

On white sand he called “el mar,”

A young boy holds my waist.

 

I slumped down in a chair to dream,

And clear as glass I saw his

Eyes. With calloused hands upon

My face, we would kiss.

 

He’d stroll with me down narrow streets

With yellow houses on each side,

Old men and dogs in tiny cars

Would whistle passing by.

 

One night he climbed a mango tree,

And promised that we’d meet again,

Then placed a letter in my hand,

He’d wait for me till then.

 

Sometimes I still wonder how,

In that quaint village out of reach,

My sweet Tico’s living now,

And if he ever thinks of me.

 

 

We would lie under the moon and

Spit in a can while we laughed

At the wild stories folks told about us,

Thinkin’ how great everything was.

I was a better gunman, and Jesse always

Got the finest women, but

We both knew how to make dirt

Shine like gold.

 

We’d been runnin’ for years when

I heard the crack of the bullet

Leavin’ the barrel, and turned to see

Jesse on his knees, a blood rose

Bloomin’ on his cotton waistcoat.

He hit the pavement facedown, shot

In the back for a prize.

 

It was like fallin’ through fragile

Ice into sharp water that laughs as

You turn blue and forget to breathe.

It holds you under and leaves you

Numb and asphyxiated.

 

I kept the image of him in mind—

Jesse’s silky straight-combed hair

That he always parted to the left,

Our father’s gold pocket watch

Cracked on the pavement under his arm,

His empty eyes, and the hot panic

Frozen on his blood-speckled face—

As I stepped into the office.

 

A man with thinnin’ white hair and

A ring of fat ‘round his neck

Had concern smeared thick across his face

When he saw me walkin’ up to his high desk.

“You’re Frank James,” he told me.

I put on a wily smile like Jesse’s and nodded.

“Governor Crittenden,” I said,

Placin’ my pistol in his hand,

“I surrender.”

 

- Cassandra Reinhart

 

 

 

He always keeps it tight under

His arm like a crutch.

As we walk up to the house,

I twist to untangle a silver

Cat from my ankles,

But he holds my hand.

“Don’t pet him,” he says,

“We don’t have any soap…”

He smiles and tells me his mother buys it,

Though I’ve never seen her there.

 

I push past green Indian beads

Strung like heavy rain.

They clatter against a door

That shuts with a hook-and-eye lock.

He lays the sketchbook on the mattress

And goes to call his mother.

He says she isn’t well.

 

No surface in the room is naked…

Objects strewn with color and care echo

Kandinsky. Clay pots shaped like toads,

A drum set without snares, a hole in the wall

Looks like a Christmas stocking.

Coffee rings glue bits of paper to his desk,

Jars of cigarette butts line shelves,

Books and records form a cityscape

Against a window with foggy panes.

I leave the room’s greatest mystery

Closed on his bed.

 

He calls me on a mild afternoon,

And I sprint past the eager cat,

Rip through the beads of rain,

And crash into a tower

Of cardboard boxes labeled “Junk.”

The room is white and clean,

Empty, except for his sketchbook.

Flipping through its worn pages,

I see his mother for the first time.

 

She’s holding a cup of tea,

Steaming with graphite swirls.

She’s in a blue sequin flapper dress,

That shines in the paper light.

She’s in bed under fluorescents

Wearing hard-drawn bags under

Her fading gray eyes.

I see him through her, and I see her

Through him.

 

I find him out back, and kiss

His salty cheek. I walk into the

Bathroom to grab a towel and stop.

A brand new bar of Dove soap rests by the sink.

On the porch we sit by a cherry birdhouse

While I hold the silver cat.

 

-Cassandra Reinhart, Section 4