Cracked Windshield

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Sudden the stone that cracked
the windshield, the storm that
struck the heirloom oak– you
ask for rain, beg for answers.
Soaked hands steer through
the blindness of the blur–
ten years now since Dad
merged into the final lane,
his pass misjudging distance
from collision, and that night
Mom heard a screeching
in her bedroom like a crow
passing from another world,
a bleak siren thrusting her
to darkness her headlights
could not cut through.

(originally published in Kingdoms in the Wild, Winter 2021)

Forgotten Beach

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I cannot open my eyes, nor hear the flapping
of wings, nor feel the earth beneath
the forest. I pray that I may never return to
this sinking world– I can’t imagine the thoughts
I’d think alone, resting in the sun
and letting the surf wash over me.
It’s too far to come back home and still be safe.
I’ll light another torch,
and carry a prayer that will burn forever
in the river. From rocks I will dig
and dive in. When I sink, I know
I will never return.

(originally published in Bruiser Mag, Spring 2023)

Lance-Esque

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

My whole life has been a joke
just how I want it, laughing

whenever inappropriate
societally. Not to be a

monster, not to redefine
sadness, grief, frustration

already a kaleidoscope of
every temporary state

of water, how every
time the sky strikes

an unlucky roll of die
to fail I laugh instead.

(originally published in Alternate Route, Spring 2023)

Wildwood

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Let’s go to Wildwood and get lost in
the rough waves of September. Stand
further from shore than ever, where
water’s shallow, sand firm though
fine enough to spiral into thoughts
where its strength dissipates and you
sink into a rough wave. Sometimes
what you need is to be pummeled by
the Atlantic. If you are not careful,
you could drown, but in the cerulean
calm of caesura, waves break all
around and forgive you. When
it is offered you want the air frigid
in the warmth of your sequence
of days so it can thrash the
fragileness of body and you will
not know what you have craned
your neck for. You’ll pull out
binoculars to view onlookers
on a distant, speeding sailboat
and you will see your life,
how fast it will pass.

(originally published in Stink Eye Magazine, Fall 2022)

Omnipotence

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Your laugh could knock civilization out
but you are too modest.

I spent time at the cafeteria alone
at school. Red trays quivered.

On film sets I can’t look up.
How tight is the lighting rig?

When I apply that logic
to our place in the universe–

it’s too cold a stone to live alone.
When your soundwaves reach me,

in my solace, from the moon
or Mars or Mars, Pennsylvania,

I want my life to begin again
and I want you there

the whole time.

(originally published in Ephemeral Elegies, Spring 2023)

Obsolescence

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The only photograph of us we ever took was
at Thursday’s Lounge, on an ancient phone from
ten years ago. Your boyfriend at the time snapped
us, smiling, in front of the liquor selection. Neither

of us realized it would be years until the next time
we would meet again. Since then, I have acquired
a mountain of phones, piled somewhere in storage.
And while I want to find this picture for some kind

of momentary joy, I cannot hope to find one such
antiquity in a landfill of antiquities. I know the
memory has become warped, muted, fuzzy.
Since I’ve seen you, we have both compiled a

mountain of loves, relics embedded within
ourselves. The brain’s complicated wirings–
circuitry functioning enough to remind me
we were, briefly, more than a photograph.

(originally published in AvantAppal(achia), Spring 2023)

Of Passing Cars

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Each night after work I leap
to new conclusions the chatter
of the world consumes me

I watch who I wanted to be
years ago materialize in the music
of passing cars some deep ache

slows in my chest I need
to relax my shoulders I am not
giving my life to the clock

now people return
to my street I need
to go inside and hide

(originally published in First Literary Review-East, Summer 2023)