bed

There Is a Wall

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

between us, only
a centimeter wide.
Didn’t used to be
there, this space.
We lay leglocked
in bed miles apart
now, this fissure.

In California, they talk
about the next big one
around the corner,
perpetually, and
before I moved
I had nightmares

of tsunamis consuming
the coast and then my bed
and woke up drenched
alone in darkness wondering
if my next one was around
the next year’s bend–

a lover to drown
beside, mouths lapping
seawater, tender word debris
we’d strain to hear or otherwise
imagine.

(originally published in The Seventh Quarry, Summer 2023)

Memory Foam

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

here I look at the same room I’ve spent many nights in
the diffuser diffusing the world’s hues into you & me
the cat composed of smoke
Sara takes a sick day & the room crawls with veins
I watch my own age spiderweb into me flipping pages in a manuscript
this room is made of hair this room breathes fur webs
this is what brains are made of
every imprint of hand
when you sit down this bed this ocean floor this beginning

 

(originally published in Ariel Chart, Fall 2017)

Jack

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

This dog has seen you paint red the walls
and its color fade from sheetrock.

Rest. You walk butterfly wings,
each step a budding stem.

You and Jack love similarly, a dance
of tongue-and-stomp. Long-nailed

paws clomp heartbeats to the closed
door, painted white– a desire panting

for who is on the other side– and he waits,
as you have, on so many nights.

 

(originally published in Heartbeat, Issue 2)