awkward

Day 14 of 21 (Block A)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I saw you meditating
in the UPM’s office    shades pulled
lotus on speckled carpet

you caught me wondering
if you were tranquil     I felt terrible
though the door was open    I was

an arrow piercing peace
that single moment    I don’t know
if you ever think about it

your spotting my gaze   lasted one
second at most    my mind runs
reruns    just tell me you’ve forgotten

in the chaos of casting   hundreds
of extras    for a scene canceled
by sudden rain

(originally published in The Broadkill Review, Summer 2021)

Cookie Cake

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I cut cookie cake with plastic butterknife
a birthday my age is showing not my celebration
in the office a long way to the center I repeatedly

say I slice some New York pizza I shape
a biscotti I am the awkward focal point
struggling through the cake rock my boss

offers me a Swiss army knife I refuse
she swears it’s clean the PEOPLE want
a show they want to see struggle I

bellow hands shaking through thick paper
plate after plate she says I’m impressed
you didn’t break and my piece is

so sweet I can barely eat I
do it anyway the work
I put in deserves dessert

(originally published in Squawk Back, Fall 2022)

New Year’s Party – Dining Room

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Nothing to start conversation with
but the glow of television, hors d’oeuvres

the crowd devoured and I could only stand
and gape at the electric wiring strung along

the ceiling that led to the hanging light
fixture, a metallic apple dimmed. I wanted

to talk about architecture but felt wildly
inadequate due to the bricks missing

in my brain, hammers clanking where
words should, my mouth full of nails.

(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Summer 2020)

Band Room

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

there are many instruments that we are
and many more we are not

such as we are sometimes saxophones
who have not memorized love songs

but we have eyes to read the sheets
lips to blow into trumpets tubas

muscles to crash cymbals
pound the bass drum at night

we remain off-tune no matter time of day
arcs of trombone waves flute trills rainbows

the inhaled swampy atmosphere
of slide-lube and falling domino fingers

down the rigid clarinet air
melodic staccatos of sixteenth-notes

every piece celestas
on wet reed floor

the band room holds its breath
waits for us to play something

 

(originally published in Beech Street Review, Fall 2016)

Excessive Drinking

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I am a sun-drenched willow field withered and
purple. Headache remiss, wonder when the liver
will churn its nightly clarion call, squeezing rags
to drag the water out.

Sometimes the nights are like that in the silence
between friends. The drafts replace talking.
You can’t hear the words with breath so still
and distant, willows soon awakening.

 

(originally published in Transcendence Magazine, Summer 2016)