dog

The Sword of Light

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

This fixture you forgot
on your back patio.

You say you are confused–
how did that turn on? It has

been months since I last visited.
I say the light is a metaphor

for our friendship. Big plants
sit in chairs in your brown-fenced

garden. Don’t know how close
to be anymore. Never get too close.

A tomato vine peeks from a planter
above you. Gardening’s a hobby,

inching toward the thirty you fear.
An August birthday during the lost

summer and you toss a squeaky
blue ball in my general direction,

more wildly as the night goes on,
and Lola retrieves it every time.

You say she slept upstairs with
you for the first time. We joke

she didn’t fall immediately, that you
had to tell her to turn the television

off, stamp her cigarette out. With our masks,
I only see your eyes smile. I hope you notice

mine. It is dark, as it has been for months,
and we try to stay illuminated, despite

these killer particles suspended
somewhere in the talk between us.

(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Summer 2023)

To Kailee (From Irie)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I know the risks when I make the journey–
after running through shadows beneath dark
desk, I must evade the heavy stomping
of giants who do not see me and black
wheels that zag back and forth on
the bottom of a bony leather rolling
chair. And if I can get past that,
there’s the barren carpet desert,
a field of dust kicking up exhaust
to sneeze. I huff and puff past junk
I’m told is poison yet I always want
to eat– crumbs from a swan
sandwich, push pins, script meat.
And at the edge of the expanse I am
out of breath with miles to go–
a table ten towers tall to run under.
I close my eyes and sprint until
the window by where you sit
and I tap you on the shoe.
After you call my name
I say that’s me! then
your palms become a
cradle lifting me to lap
where the world is warm
honey sunshine.
After hours and hours
to rest and recover–
you glide me over
towers, the dust field,
the rolling chair, the stomping
shoes, the shadows, like these
obstacles were nothing when
you place me back in my blanket.
For you, bringing me home
is the easiest thing in the world.

(originally published in Backchannels Journal, Spring 2023)

Earth Puzzle

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

We think completing the jigsaw
depicting Earth will complete us, but
4 AM we float in half-consciousness,
hoping to realign our orbit, still aimed
into vastness, a jumbled mess on the
floor. Even the dog snores. Earlier,
Disco ran across our tarot cards, shuffling
a wrangled meaning into fate. The Hermit.
The Star. The Hanged Man. I try to string
together half-correlations. I want to drink
more. I open the window and inhale.
I look into the dark and wonder
how we can piece it all together.

(originally published in Artvilla, Spring 2023)

Jessie Must Think I Am Pathetic

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Another gray sky day, empty gas tank worries in the countryside
nowhere don’t you long for my touch? Oz runs just far enough
for the bone against the backdrop of my outstretched arm
hand out fingers extended & I don’t know where I stand with Jessie
except she must find me pathetic as she walks into water under the
influence of Dr. Dog & now she swim-dances the past three days she’s
walked along the rock edge of the pool. & now I need to text Tony Z.
what’s a man most afraid of? I’m getting used to inadequacy. Oz brings
his bone to the other side of the fence. Jessie says she misses the green,
the pool purified at the beginning. Sara throws pong ball through
the hole of a lime lifesaver floatie and a butterfly metaphor soars
above the water. Have you ever almost drowned on drugs? I don’t
recommend it. The lesson is gravity’s not the occasionally falling apple
but the drifting leaf toward the other side, whatever the definition. September
third and we just got our first sunburns. Hannah leaves the house after
work and like a magic trick, three pong balls appear in the water
and the sun reveals itself a moment. Oz lays in the grass in front
of me before a philosophical discussion about casserole and how to cope
with beans bought at the beginning of pandemic we will never eat.

(originally published in KNOT Magazine, Fall 2021)

To Billy (From Irie)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

When I first saw the broom stand
upright in the room, I thought, witchcraft.
I couldn’t sleep for days after that.
Not because it tumbled and crashed
to the floor in a roar of unforeseen
thunder, but because it was thrilling
to see the way we could play with
gravitational pull. Can my chewy
be tossed across the office with
a knuckleball axis tilt at the end?
I’ve witnessed tricks, your robot-
walk into a wall, your near-miss
backflip kick to the hanging amber
lights off the ceiling. I see everything
that happens here from my suite
on the floor, which is why, one day,
when the moon is tugging the world
the right way, I’ll sneak out my pillow
into the hall, past the conference room.
When you search for me, I will stand
on two legs in the shadows, ready
to capture your reaction on camera.

(originally published in Communicators League, Fall 2021)

To Rich (From Irie)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Bananas everywhere make me hungry.
The doormat, the neon sign, the sticker

on your Apple– I can’t help it. My
cuteness doesn’t preclude that I am part

wolf. A ruthless hunter. When I run
across the rug to your room I want you

to throw fruit on the floor just to bite off
the peels. I’ve had my eyes on inedible Ethel

the Christmas Chicken when I learned she’s
still a chicken. For once I want a sandwich.

Put me in your cart with a potato gun
at Sam’s and we’ll hold that whole

place up. As you ransack the banana stand,
I’ll loot the deli and meet you in the middle.

(originally published in Jokes Review, Summer 2020)

Starbucks

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

you stepped in dog
poop on your birthday
but still had a good birthday
we walked through windchimes
off golden sidewalks
& drank a vat of black coffee
free from a corporation
so desperate for your loyalty
all our other friends
reached into their pockets
to blow out their rewards, too

(originally published in The Daily Drunk, Winter 2021)

I Try to Keep Your Ice Cream Cake Cold

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

It is eighty-two degrees in Pittsburgh and my trunk
is crammed so your DQ cake sits in the passenger seat,

moves the same speed I do in my car in this orbit
in this galaxy. There is so much matter to keep cool

in the universe, but there’s sunshine through my wind-
shield and you– I know– thaw as a passenger beside

me. I’m doing what I can: aiming all the frigid vents
that way, holding a folder to shade you. I drive fifty-

five in a thirty-five to avoid my mind entertaining a
milky flood mixed with dust, dog hair, cookie crumbs,

and lust pooling where you are, your name in icing
illegible– it’s fine, for now. Don’t freak out. I am

floating over a bridge, the sun forever taunting,
and soon I know you’ll go, in one way or another,

into the mouth of a thankful person– whether me,
trying to save you from this heat, or you, radiant

as the sun, seeing celestial bodies who– for at
least this rotation– you know revolve around you.

 

(originally published in Dodging the Rain, Spring 2020)