columbus

A Poetry of Place

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Because Tony once said he knew
Columbus and Los Angeles the way I do–
I have not yet developed a poetry of
place for Pittsburgh. Three years in and
still the surprise hills, the way I always
feel– still– an outsider wending my way
through confusing streets. I’ve worked with
Kailee’s dad longer than I lived with Paige
and still we haven’t had a deep conversation.
Everywhere I go there remains a sense of some
thing deep that needs explored. The way
I walked Los Angeles streets at night–
the endless sprawl– must be the same,
but Pittsburgh’s smaller, the graffiti
more familiar, how it’s all a sketch of home.

(originally published in Vilas Avenue, Winter 2023)

Hudson

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I left your place with nothing
to say to the paper skeleton
hanging on your door. Walked
the street in old, browned
loafers to meet other friends,
no celebrations to celebrate.
Your birthdays always pass
without fanfare. I see ribbons
in you when you do not.
Candles, cake, club
music. Striating lights
to spotlight, embrace,
then the world– its
countless, colorful
ribbons– would spin
around us, give you this.

(originally published in Across the Margin, Summer 2020)

Shirtless in Goodale Park

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I swing my shirt
around like a lasso
at the community
festival
when you walk by
my sunburnt torso
and stop
to ask how I have been.
Last month
we hung out
in circles
before I confessed
and we got dizzy.
When you exit
the conversation,
I drink
myself onto
a patch
of clumped grass
wishing
our shirtlessness
together was
a more organic
situation,
but everyone
here is shirtless.
We are all half
naked in the sun
hoping for another
chance.

(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Summer 2022)

Reasons to Leave

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

cooped in a house this depressed era    winter
summer you say I’m really your friend  I believe
it now but before in the spring    it was pinwheels

could’ve been poets seeking nothing but tea   coffee
chocolates         grand canyon space  understating
worlds of difference     your activism accurate

paintings hang over white   walls      laughter
your echo screams through town I have a bucket
of these memories splashing out      on the short

walk to your place     I can’t stop feeding   monsters
you laugh at me onscreen    onstage
our common ground is both of us   leave as far

as we can go    to stay an other

(originally published in Avatar Review, Summer 2021)

Beer Pong in Your Basement

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I was new to this
kind of longing

sticky all my fingers
on red fingernail cups

but I was a visitor I was a loner
I lived in my car

a couch was a luxury
four cats purred and clawed

at me I couldn’t sink anything
into the drinks. I sank

but made myths I missed
everyone in Akron everything

that happens to you
sticks to you. swish

there was a way to
live in all places at once.

Pittsburgh Columbus Akron
Los Angeles. my memories

are mine and they are selfish. I cling
to what I forget which is what

I drink away which is all
the spills over all the years

I haven’t yet wiped clean.

(originally published in The Seventh Quarry, Summer 2023)

Purple Paint

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

on your bed was revelation a coming
to know purple paint with third-floor
view the pines and run-down houses all
strangers because we too once only
knew each other in name then your cat
nuzzled nose against my legflesh and we
sipped on beers we left on the nightstand
to finish later when the last bitter note
lingered on our tongues

(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spring 2023)

Float

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Presently I am restless.
The television’s flickering
from the bedroom distracts
me from my mind’s reruns.
Last night, I learned to float
on my back for the first time.
It’s all about the ears, my teacher
said, but I am thinking about
her hands– how she held me.
My lower spine. Right leg.
The night before, on her couch,
our kneecaps sat a centimeter
apart, enough to receive each other’s
heat. I recalled a video in which
two water droplets in close proximity
refused to stop reaching for the other,
tirelessly wobbling until
losing strength. Perhaps we
both have been dating others for
too long, afraid of the aftermath.
In the pool, she let me float
into the purple dusk beneath
the bright, orange moon. I was
an egg unformed and drifting,
a body in transition shifting
wherever the pool dictated.
I cannot predict where shooting
stars appear in thin atmosphere air,
nor how far they’ll go, only that
they are doomed to disappear.

(originally published in Raised Brow Press, Summer 2020)

Disc Golf

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

My excuse for a poor score:
the frisbee has teeth. And a mind.
It chose to rebel inside the wind–

I agree, of course, when you say
our food delivery job is temporary.
We have hours before we need

to clock in– an ordinary morning
straddling the Olentangy river.
Any way to get our minds off

routine: when scanning the field
for ticks, I find nothing but
excuses, for never becoming

the suit-and-tie my parents
wanted me to be, my score
well over par, another

wayward toss into the breeze
hopes for clarity on a journey
I know not where will lead.

(originally published in Penmen Review, Fall 2020)