FROM THE ARCHIVES: “The Letter” by Maia ten Brink (2012)

(The following poem was originally published in the Fall 2012 issue of the Nassau Literary Review.)

They crossed by train the gilded fields of July.
The boys elbowed and argued in shadow,
their eyes red with dust, barely light to see by,
only slivers between the cattle-stench slats — 
the lusty purple cabbage of Mr. Koors,
Coevorden’s farmers hoeing, their hats
in the sun hovering like gulls. And there,
woodsmoke, bread baking. The painted clouds
high above the copses. Did you hear
where they are taking us? Is it far?
the boys rattled, whispered
against the boxcar’s walls. East, East!
Leo, who was my brother, pressed hard
with a pencil stub to the back of some pocket list — 
Flee, he scrawled, and the address home.
He forced the letter through a hole, one hard twist,
heard its wings open, a paper cry.
The boy who had found a cricket in the corner of the car
held it against his chest, breathed to it a happy lie — 
A nameless child among nameless children
held it against his chest, breathed to it a happy lie.
The boy, who had found a cricket in the corner of the car
heard its wings open. A paper cry.
He forced the letter through a hole, one hard twist — 
“Flee,” he’d scrawled, and the address home,
with a pencil stub to the back of some pocket list.
Leo, who was my brother, pressed hard
against the boxcar’s walls. East, East!
The boys rattled, whispered:
“Where are they taking us? Is it far?”
High above the copses, did you hear
woodsmoke, bread baking? The painted clouds
in the sun hovering like gulls. And there,
Coevorden’s farmers hoeing, their hats.
The lusty purple cabbage of Mr. Koors…
only slivers between the cattle-stench slats.
Their eyes red with dust, barely light to see by,
the boys elbowed and argued in shadow.
They crossed by train the gilded fields of July.