The Visitation

by Billy Reynolds

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Near the ramp the billboard was whited out.
An ad in the lobby said photos with loved ones $5.
The inspection cell was the smell of disinfectant.
Once inside a brand-new baby screamed.

Families lined up with their $5 bills
next to the camera that stood tall on its tripod.
A mom in prison scrubs held her baby.
The camera flashing was strange fruit.

My sister stood shorter than the tripod.
She found napkins and cleaned the table.
The camera flashing was strange fruit.
The vending machine made hot chocolate.

My sister kept all the napkins on the table.
They were pages from a photo album.
Inside the vending machine the mix frothed.
I couldn’t bring the photo album.

The napkins were pages from an album
that slowly turned back to white.
Inside she still stood in her prom dress?
She was sixteen when she got her pearls.

Each page slowly turned back to white?
Inside the album, she kept smiling her smile.
How old was she when she pawned her pearls?
She wanted to know what we got at the wedding.

Inside the album, she kept smiling her smile.
My voice droned on. I twiddled with my ring.
She wanted to know what the Hills gave us,
then pointed at someone named D. Yeah her.

My voice droned on. I twiddled with my ring.
All she planned to do was play solitaire later.
She pointed to D. Yeah her. They stuck together.
We rose from the table, one more thing to say.

She would cycle through all the cards later,
drag the king of hearts onto an empty stack.
I rose from the table, one last thing to say
or do, hug her neck again, skin-to-skin.