Gun Smoke and Jack-o-Lanterns

 

The day Kennedy was shot, I was in art class
brushing oil from a palette of Celestial Blue
onto a canvas of unripe pumpkins. Jackie
in her pillbox hat, waved from the backseat
as the warehouse window opened
and a rifle barrel protruded. Years later I rode
the Dallas Red Line to the warehouse
museum. The tram clicked to the rhythm of Jack,
Jackie, Jack-be-quick, jack-o-lanterns,
a chant bringing to mind the butcher knife
I used to create hollow eyes, a jagged grin,
like that summer my sister dared me
to raid Peterson’s field, and I poached
those golden spheres in the crease of night.

A shot rang out and we sprinted at a dead-run
back to the pick-up, nervous leaps heaving
our bodies over the tailgate where we landed
on the hard corrugated flesh of orange
and more orange. Hank, my sister’s boyfriend,
power-shifted into first, third, fourth
and sped down County Road K, laughter
trailing over potato fields while Mr. Peterson
re-cocked his rifle, took aim at the North Star.
 

Back in town I climbed the white pickets,
smashed the neighbor’s candle–lit grins,
climbed up backstairs that creaked
like tattle-tales. I pulled the maroon sheet
over my eyes and faked sleep.
My mother’s flashlight fueled the hallway
with orange-red splinters, and I thought
of Jackie, her dress smeared with blood
as the agent used his own body as a shield.
I didn’t go back to art class that week,
didn’t paint anything blue or purple,
because those oily pigments lurk in the body,
surface through a wound, turn crimson. 

​

First published in Sugar House Review #20, Spring/Summer 2020