Even in the Nostalgia of My Happiest Era

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I think of the lawn, the grass I had
to cut by the mouthfuls, sink into
something other than summer, the flesh
of work, beer bottles piling in the margins
of the yard. I’d take my gloves off– hungover
July– to pick up last night’s blurry harmonicas.
Oh, I’d sing the songs through my teeth.
I lapped at youth forever cranking the tracks
from Myth, the blue days buzzing
by. Granny apples were rotting
in the yard beneath my nose. Even then
I told myself I can’t stay here forever.

(originally published in frak\ture, Spring 2020)

Junkyard

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I grew up with a yard full of worthless
a ministry of rare Earth metals    there was
a patch of grass to sometimes lay in
I’d reflect the sun   never photosynthesizing
there is an unwell that swells in me whenever
I go home to Cleveland    the gunsmoke clouds
always gathered above where the rabid dogs
would bark   &  I was raised beside inoperational
cars   my father cranking the crowbar to lugnuts
of too many punctured tires   no spares unused
a basement of bolts and lubricants   white bottled
Dad spoke mechanics to me  incomprehensible
tongue   until a tire burst on a dead stretch
of highway the other day   I had to pull over
and recall the broken way he explained things

(originally published in The Green Light, Spring 2020)

For Once I’d Like to Hear You Over My Brain

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The endless universe of this coffee-church
I blend into the ground, ground
anxiety into yours, I met you there, pit-

pattering footsteps I couldn’t stop
listening to. I asked myself
if this was a joke

the way only nervous nothing I said
to you.         Yah-yah-yah.
I am awake, I know

over this river I
Jesus-walk miraculously
you reach your hand

to me–
             cold, wet illness.
             Neither of us are

here.

(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Winter 2021)

First Run of 2018

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Mid-June. Don’t judge.

The list of ways to better
myself always melts off
the tongue: be grateful, eat
carrots, exercise. Period.

Used to be I ran for courtship
but now I think how settled I sound,
gliding over the sidewalk’s grass clippings,
a product of suburban domestication.

Stones jangle in my stomach
as they do at the start
of each new thing: I’m leaving
this city, finally– magenta

in the sunset peeking out
from possible storm clouds.

It rained earlier. And at the end
of my route I’ll be a lake
packing for the move. Boxes

to open later– memories
of transformation, every
day running from
the younger self to now.

 

(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Spring 2020)

Sneeze

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

if you have something to say say it
thick-coated anticipation
you have a habit of staring into the nearest brightest light
horse galloping dirt fast toward you
your sadness unhidden momentous
hiding future illness in your blood
where we first kissed the claustrophobic purple room wipes her snot on my neck
another glass of water another benadryl hours pass the sun descends to sleep
blue handkerchief hangs at the side of the bed
you say this happens each first warmth of winter
but it happens every time birds wing from the distance
a swarm an inevitable oncoming pressure

 

(originally published in Modern Literature, Spring 2020)

On the table at the family

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

gathering is a photo of me
in flip-flops atop the roof
of my childhood home
holding a rake to the sky
my brother says I did not

recognize that was you
my sister says wow you are
actually doing manual labor
and in my mind I know
that was the morning after

M stayed over when
I was visiting from LA and
I had just finished raking
grimy blackened leaves off
the roof that gathered in

the years since Dad died
but it’s true he made me
hate the yard and stressed
the lawn as living in a filth
we’d have to fix and every

few days in the summer
he’d place the red mower
outside the shed waiting
for me to kill the grass in
diminishing rectangles

(originally published in Rat’s Ass Review, Fall 2020)

House of Miracles

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I don’t remember the phrase, spray-painted
on a house in Wilkinsburg, that caught you
on the way to work some May or June day–
it couldn’t have been Miracles do happen–
too cliché. It was some unexpected inverse.
I remember you mentioned you liked to think
there was a man named Miracle in there
(this must be a clue) – the details elude
me. Reflecting, it seems miraculous to have
survived this haze of spring turned summer,
fall– memory’s the rain hovering over our fake
Centennial Park. I kept throwing sacks of dust
into the spot on the cornhole board that would
end the game, but as the game kept going,
the show kept steering to the opposite end of reality.

                                                 In my mind, this house–
                                                 wooden panels splinting, gray paint chipping–
                                                 was surrounded by overgrown grass
                                                 becoming harder and harder to see past.
                                                 You cut the grass, the grass grows faster!

This show was like that. Have you seen
the viral video of the tree just struck
by lightning? The inside’s raging red,
an orange flame self-contained, but
I like to think that tree was in Miracle’s
lawn, and he was zen in tending
to the heat and ever-growing grass.
But all the forces were conspiring–
twice the office toilet wouldn’t stop
running beyond reasonable control.
The first time was the first week, when
it flooded the floor and drowned
the executive offices. You sent me
to Busy Beaver to buy a monkey
wrench, but no matter how we turned,
the water seeped past carpet.

                                                 The second time was at the end. We had
                                                 all lived hell, survived it. The water was
                                                 relentless, but this time, when you went
                                                 in, there was a crowd outside the bathroom
                                                 door asking if it was over– the flood, the
                                                 show. This time, it was different. You fixed it.

 

(originally published in Home Planet News Online, Fall 2020)

On Twitter Yael Asks to Be Messaged a Secret

/ James Croal Jackson / 1 Comment

So: since I stopped drinking,
my sugar-craving’s intensified
tenfold. This volcano-
shaped silhouette inside me
needing peaked with white
sweet snow. Now no one knows
but you– I went to Kroger
in this cold April rain past
bleating trains and dovetailed
straight for the candy and cookie
aisles. I took advantage of the
sales, stocked Oreos and Hershey’s,
went to self-checkout. I did not
want a stranger to know my blue-
bagged shame that began
unwrapping in the car,
bar after bar, but here
you are.

 

(originally published in Hamline Lit Link, Summer 2020)

Body

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I dig for an artifact of me in myself–
hot shovel, cold hands. Last year (and the next),

I grieved on an airplane of my own longing,
finally over a peak to be proud of and the

outside would have killed me. Yet the air
inside was stale– passing breaths of confined

bakers, strangers, hagglers. Their quiet chatter,
occasional laughter only filtered through my ears.

I was (and will be) a hole better voids can fill.

(originally published in Agony Opera, Summer 2021)