Four Sandwiches by Martín Espada

Four Sandwiches

     —Washington, D.C.

JC was called the Rack   

at the work farm,   

aluminum milk pails   

dangling from his hands.   

Once a sudden fist 

crushed the cartilage of nose 

across his face, 

but JC only grinned, 

and the man with the fist   

stumbled away. 

JC sings his work farm songs on the street,   

swaying with black overcoat and guitar,   

cigarettes cheaper than food. 

But today he promises 

four sandwiches, two for each of us. 

The landlady, a Rumanian widow, 

has nailed a death mask   

over JC’s bed, 

sleeping plaster face   

of a drowned girl 

peaceful in the dark. 

As the girl contemplates water   

and pigeons batter the window,   

JC spreads the last deviled ham   

on two slices of bread, 

presses them together, 

then slowly tears four pieces. 

“Here,” he almost sings,   

“four sandwiches.”