biology

Anachronism / Angiosperm

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I’m trying to tell you
          I’m trying

                                 my petals’ attempt
at opening

                  an articulate tongue

    the phylum anthophyta

                                  glass breaking in the sun

I am Late Jurassic
   early Cretaceous

                                   it’s true I don’t belong
here among your desiccated peonies

I plead bee telepathy

          antennae

                          someone read
                                              my mind

before the era ends
                                  before I swallow

pyrethroids

     over ensuing millennia I can’t promise
                                                       I will adapt

(originally published in Ginosko Literary Journal, Fall 2021)

Then I Hear Me

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

in front of a hundred
eyeless peers I push
my glasses up & then
I hear me speak (o lord
this tin tunnel was I born
in aluminum are my horns
hidden from sight I
am pulling at my hair
searching for the devil
in my throat) I loved
the old recordings
VHS & handheld &
then I hear me speak
(crush the volume down
my thumbs in my ears
to find ocean & space
look away to the blank
shut lids & reach
for the pine cone remote
somewhere on this
cold egg shell couch
among the crumbs)
couldn’t my larynx
have received a more
commanding inheritance
before my parents passed?
I’ve been singing into
graveyards to ugly
featherless songbirds
and then I hear me
sing (or footsteps
thumping down the
path paved to lead
others to grieve,
newlywidowers
seeking silence
in the umber
shade)

(originally published in Hello America Stereo Cassette, Winter 2021)

My Barber Says Hello in Public

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Often, before a haircut, I make
the joke to a friend– I don’t know
if you’ll recognize me later!

In the chair, the barber holds
scissors, removes my glasses.
His form blurs in the mirror.

At the conclusion of a cut, I
must accept the physical
implications of my new self.

But my friend Kurt once said
in each moment we become
a different person, our atoms

scrambled with each second’s
footstep, our hairs scattered on
the floor– they, too, rearranging.

(originally published in Miranda House Philosophy Magazine, Spring 2021)

Christmas Eve, 2014

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

the living room drones and mumbles.
the bone dove sings a petrified song

above the tree, nearly silent enough
to believe a resurrection could occur

in the coming days. pass the stocking
with the kidney stone. bring

the anesthetic. we will drink–
this is the blood bond, the calm,

the thin slicing of ham: bloodless
& calm, torn red wrapping paper

strewn about the room

 

(originally published in Whale Road Review, December 2015)