I Believe I Tend to Complicate

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I believe I tend to complicate
all matters, but when I strain

I remember we are one unified
being swimming between the lie

of stars as tides sweep over the city.
Quiet night– at least no one

seems to mind the oak of
my cologne. I can smell

the earth and the rain all around,
the seaweed everywhere.

The tang of time is yellow,
maybe parched, alongside

herbal tea and
cool desiccation.

I am on
the beach below her, watching clouds,

splintering sky, my eternal life
a big house just waiting to

sell to a surfer. Above, the yellow light
depends on the seasons, the turquoise

narrows the closer it gets to the blue,
coinciding with what looks like a different wave.

(originally published in In Parentheses, 2023)

Bottle

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

corkscrew splits when prying loose
coppola‘s aged cabernet sauvignon

you once opened a bottle in a hotel
with a flatiron i bring down a steamer

the bottle perspires with no release my cat
nearly walks into the heat i’m thankful you are

present my spine so soft can’t keep anyone
safe best not dwell my memories

are triglycerides clinging the tender
parts of brain we go downhill to rite-aid

we’re told it’s barren look elsewhere
a beer store closing the clerk in desperate

gasp seeks three screws he can use
to make a tool makeshift but alas

the shoe method works he says take
your boot pound with force try

as we might against my home’s brick no
way to get how we feel into the open

(originally published in RUNDELANIA, Fall 2024)

A Soft Fog

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Don’t freak out– it’s just fog–
soft as breath on your neck–

it is us, trying to salvage
this mess. A flower wilting

in morning, a scream, no rain,
a meadow in Maine where

we buried our secrets.
We don’t know shit about right

or wrong. About how deep
the wound goes. Only that the fog

is us: our spit, our blood, our love.
We fog up the windows, the mirrors,

the sky. We’re making Maine our own.

(originally published in Pandemonium Journal, Summer 2024)

Stressful Music

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The repetitive techno at Trace
squelches and invades my ears
I am just trying to drink
coffee and move on with
my life in an aesthetically-
pleasing way with green
plaid and rough jeans
but flies swirl
around my head and
I can’t stop thinking
of you starting your
new job at the hospital
and all I want is to hold
your hand again with
the fingers currently
pressing up against
the dust of keyboard
and the history of
my heart plugged
into the wall where
ghosts walk through
all hours and stay
in the dark until
the mud begins
to dry at the crust
of my shoes
in the warm
mornings

(originally published in Disturb the Universe, Summer 2025)

Humphreys Street

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Now that the hurricane
has passed with clear
skies, I have a chance
to explore my new
neighborhood.
I cut down trees
in my overgrowth
of memory. A long
driveway leads to
an abandoned mansion,
brown-bricked and sturdy.
The ghosts inside
I would evict completely
but I have some questions–
how did your love end?
I know one side
of the story, this mess
of leaves the formless
speak, garbled
waves a fog’s
difference. In how
I hear– in your
perception saying
what? Over and
over, chewing
the sustenance
I was fed. Ruins
rising in the moonlight
and you do not believe
in astrology or ghosts,
anything supernatural
except God, yes,
the bubbles of doubt
float into your vacancies
of faith you placed
between your thumb
and forefinger,
the Leaning Tower
of our trust
that could have been
plucked from
any old hairline.

(originally published in Dandelion Scribes, Winter 2025)

Scalloped Potatoes

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Now I have time
to experiment
          preheat the room to three twenty five
          saute the onions in butterflies
          pour in garlic and butterflies
          milkwhisk the butterflies
          scrape the wings off my heart
          and wait   wait   sixty-five to eighty–
to say what I have to say to you–
I can’t wait another minute.

(originally published in The Gorko Gazette, Summer 2024)

Walking on Pearl Street

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

For a fleeting moment what was it
I felt? Happiness? Ah, in the sun,

an unburdened existence, a voice
behind me kowtowing into his

invisible phone, and I even looked
both ways before crossing Friendship

at the crosswalk– a pedestrian
wearing white shoes long-sullied

from the dramatic act of living,
and a gaggle of bicyclists passed

and I swear I smelled the murk
of sweat but it did not matter,

I was moving through this world
still, almost on a mission, though

I must admit I was aimless,
and still am, but for a second

the sun grazed my skin
to reveal a little light within.

(originally published in Orenaug Mountain Poetry Journal, Summer 2024)

A Light Snow Through the Window

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Out of all activities
to do in the world,
we choose to watch

what melts. The sugar-
frosted grass, low hills, love
of our red-brick building.

If our conversations
are jet streams, if high-
altitude, high stakes,

tension– let me
please leave and be
reborn as something cold

and forgettable.
What dinosaur wanted
to become a fossil?

In our years together
we accumulated enough
to burrow deep into

the earth. Millions
of years from now,
what some sentience

will discover is that
we were once separate.

(originally published in The Field Guide, Fall 2023)