Firenze

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

     open shutters overlook
   bells    umbrellas      energy
I    watch all day I am
  one pedestrian watch
              as        clock hands reach
slowly       one way                  up
to us which direction              walk
the bridge over the river
time the cobblestone path that
firms as marks hands gaff tape
on what slips                     this
plane this coil           weeks
     wanting not just this country
to last forever but what seeds
of doubt to be taken by wind
            stolen          by gnats
who sneak and fly into our space
if they could               digest what
we     put down plans to live
here in two years that cannot
come too fast it will arrive
a bullet         train when we are
sleeping on a humid night
in the                    future
                                        our
traveler bags                   brown
    and green     means
the forest meaning         opposite
of          open road if time
were this ambiguous than
I want nothing to do with it
but its hands are in everything
     bugs in the unfinished chianti
     drown        and            nothing
I can do to help
and I don’t want to
      drink   but I do

(originally published in The Round, Spring 2025)

Observation (October 29, 2022)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

This matches the atmosphere of pre-pandemic Ineffable Cà Phê–
seated at a mahogany table stealing vibes from strangers. Ahead:
a Jennifer Lawrence doppelgänger wearing monotone, who types
quietly in a portrait mode of cedar wall & soft lights, spooning phở;
next table over, prospective homebuyers: a Kyle Wolff in
a psychedelic Dixie Cup shirt alongside his partner, crumpled over
with a realtor who holds printed-out pages of wanted foundations.
The agent leaves and they scroll Zillow; there is a void where you
used to be; October sixty degrees spent inside, no regrets this
Halloweekend. I spy on everyone. Nebby is what Pittsburgh calls it.
I look up to see a white bowl covering a face, noodles dangling
off lips chased with chop sticks. The amber light’s flatness inspires.
Indie Interpol playlist a throwback to spending days at Muggswiggz
in Canton with Tony, soliciting strangers on Myspace for randomness.
I haven’t changed as much as I wanted. Crumbs from the bread
of my chicken bánh mì, scattered across my laptop. I swipe them
away, but dislodge more in the keys the longer I type.

(originally published in Picture Journal, Fall 2024)

The Billionaires

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

And if I didn’t want it?
I would have it. Look at

us– we are in love, long
grass abundant around us.

This should be enough
and you have it, what I want

you won’t give. What you want
I can’t do– not in my lack

of trying, but the extreme
wealth of it, the love we have

a mountain rising into fog,
the peak no longer visible

as I hook into my bootstrap
and you hook into yours.

(originally published in Dandelion Scribes, Spring 2025)

CBUS=>PIT

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Used to be you’d be the one
I’d tell balloons to– the moon
changed positions in the sky,
obscuring Orion. I’d wake
and brew you coffee dark
as peering down a well,
then drop into your cosmos,
dreams you just survived
in the night. This left me
an azure hue to proceed
through the day, delivering
good news of bread and butter
to those who were hungry
in my chosen city’s streets
of lead. I’d hold gold. Now
I am present in the intersection
of three rivers, a bridge
standing on steel Xs on
a stack. I want to be a pillar
for all who drive me home.

(originally published in Ariel Chart, Spring 2024)

I Used to Dream I’d Get So High

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Last night, I dreamt I stood
on a tall stack of books, gathered
with others around a roof

like we were at a dinner party.
When I glanced down– finally,
from the top of my tenuous skyscraper,

I had to brace my shoe against
the house to keep myself
from falling back into reality,

but I did anyway, repeating
to the guests anxiety,
anxiety, anxiety.

I used to dream I’d get so high,
anything was possible. I entered a tower,
beelined to the elevator, and pushed

the button to the top. Sometimes
the platform was already ascending.
Sometimes the whole structure was.

When the doors (if they existed) parted,
the view from the sky was so rich,
I had to be dreaming. Deep tree greens.

Eternal ocean blue. I returned
to this view often, but stopped
near the end of my twenties. I was

itinerant at the time, my life
still an open road ahead
of me. A million meanings yet

to interpret. Not yet bogged by
a steady job but not quite steadied,
living off the promises of strangers

and the engine of my Ford Fiesta,
emitting exhaust into the atmosphere,
accumulating.

(originally published in Artvilla, Winter 2024)

Dream with Bus Driver

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

This fork in history could veer
wildly left, though the bus driver
announces he forgot his glasses
at home but memorized the route.

Don’t worry, I have been this way
before and before and whatever
obstacles you see before me
and before you belong in just
those places in the long telescope
observing the passage of time

(originally published in Linked Verse, Summer 2023)

Does Freezing Salmon Before Cooking It Eliminate Parasites?

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I am done with dating
apps. I would like to make

you dinner: salmon, rice,
brussels sprouts. You said

you know what I want
for my birthday over a bed

of nigiri and leaves. I rolled
sushi once in a cavern

of doubt. I couldn’t stop
shaking. The nervousness–

I mean, the lust– grew
on your vines by

your side door.
We had your home

re-keyed, then there was
trouble with the locks.

Couldn’t keep the lovers out.

(originally posted in Discretionary Love, 2025)