Family

Tetris

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I am reading old journals, putting
pieces of my past in place–
a series of staircase Tetris shapes,

a broken board mixing L.A. palm
fronds with bad haircuts Dad
gave me, but we needed to save

money, and I was bratty. I wanted
video game anime hair but got slanted
bangs laughed at by classmates and

teachers (who would never admit they
found it funny). I knew, and still do.
Sharp laughter edged in memory. I

want to say I’ve gotten over it. Over
all of it. But I still hold the smoky
gray of Nintendo controller in both

hands, and I am trying to move the pieces
where they need to go– but I am
older and life is faster, blocks falling

into places I can no longer find them,
stacking dark spaces to the top of my
screen after these earlier, easier years.

(originally published in Bond Street Review, Winter 2021)

The Basement

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

As a kid, when my friends came
over, we would become stalagmites
on brown basement carpet, Nintendo
controllers in hand. Screen’s cold
glow our lamp in the cave. My dad,
one morning, stomped down
the stairs and yelled to play

outside. We sprinted into daylight
and blackened our palms
with a depressurized basketball.

We made the net’s swoosh sounds
with our mouths, shooting the ball
into a nearby branch, since the hoop
was erected not on pavement but
in the backyard. A dirty game of
grass and dirt. Later I learned
my Uncle Zane passed away that
morning, My father must have
felt so temporary and small,
and I wonder how long he was
in the kitchen, seething about
our wasted time.

When he ordered us to go upstairs
and outside, he was doing
the best he could to keep
us from being underground.

(originally published in Hello America Stereo Cassette, Winter 2022)

Silicon Valley (Season One, Episode Eight)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

When you see me on screen–
with blue jacket and plastic
glasses– listening to Zach
Woods brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper into
an app that can attract
rodents– like the fairy tale,
you’d think this guy on TV
is one lucky bastard.
But you probably didn’t
notice, because you don’t
know me, and you see hundreds
of people on screen
living the dream every day.
And you can see me in season
two and the first episode
of the show, ever–
the very first scene,
during the Kid Rock
concert– on stage with a
hundred other extras, and–
at the time, I had
just moved to Los Angeles,
and the background roles
I had been cast for
resulted in me
on a projector!
My friends at home
who got used to me
no longer being able
to meet them drunk
at Highland Tavern on
Mondays were now not
completely surprised
to see me rewindable
in their living rooms.
I felt destined for great
things, marked this only
the beginning, like
everyone else chasing
dreams in the city of angels.
But all I could afford to eat
were packets of beef
ramen, boxes of blue
Kraft mac and cheese
with water instead
of milk– no butter.
Hard-boiled eggs
kept me alive
long enough
to come home
to show friends
who were getting used
to me being able to
meet them drunk at
Highland Tavern on
Mondays my favorite clip–
with blue jacket
and plastic glasses,
I listen to Zach Woods
brainstorm a plan
to pivot Pied Piper
into an app that can
attract rodents–
like the fairy tale.


(originally published in Statement Magazine, Spring 2023)

Eyes (Mine)

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

If I tried to count how many nights I’ve wandered
alone to find myself, it would be on more fingers
than all my family has. If I were worried
only about eyes on walks stalking me–
if I hadn’t watched The Lion
King at seven, and my father hadn’t died,
and my brother– I wouldn’t be present
in this field of wild cleavers with my Mufasas
whispering weeds in the moonlight. Always
that breeze tickling the hairs across
my skin. That’s why I don’t walk
barefoot in the grass– I don’t trust strangers’
hands, so I count tendrils on everything green
in the dark that’s growing, wondering
if you remember how long it took
for me to learn to tie my shoes. The laces
multiplied in my field of math
I fumbled over. My hands, I could
never be precise enough to be
a mechanic, or a surgeon.
We were in the basement and
oh, you were so patient,
television glowing and muted. Dark
news and wave band static. These
negative film reels roll to nights
embedded in memory when I try
to sleep, when my lids are full
of images. I can’t believe I’ve stared
at the surface of the moon so many nights
over the years and just now saw
there is your face. My face.

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

The Wedding Poem

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I was asked to write a poem
      to read at your wedding.
I have been writing for weeks.
I don’t know what I’m trying to do
      but I know it’s something new.
Mostly the poem has become my life.
Mostly it’s a poem of longing
      for what the poem in me longs for.
Mostly it is a poem of the fight between desire
      and desire.
Mostly it is a poem of desire
      from the poem’s point of view.
Maybe the poem is a poem of love.
Though like most loves, the poem is a little
      exasperated.
The poem seems at the moment
      to be in the middle of a struggle.
The poem says the poem is struggling.
The poem says it wants more
      than this.
The poem wants to try and try again.
The poem wants you
      to write a new poem for it.
It hopes it will then write a new
      vow.
I don’t know why I made myself
      the center of this.
I don’t know why I seem to be
      the only person in the poem.
How’s this: I said I was going
      to love you forever.
I believed it.
I believed in it.
I didn’t expect the word forever
to seem anachronistic.
What do you mean,
      forever?
Who told you
      the wedding poem is for you?
Who told you the wedding poem
      has to mean anything?
The wedding poem is a poem
      about the poetry we dream.
I see you on the stage.
You are on the stage with me.
You found a poem you loved
      and someone reads us its vows.
We try to see the future.
We try to see the poems we are
even though we might not know them.
We try to see the future.
I try to see the future.
We try to see a poem about to happen.
This is a poem about the dream.
I try to see a poem about to happen.
This is a poem about to happen.
It has become a poem for you.
It has become a poem for me.
This is a poem about the poem that isn’t
      yet.
I struggle to see a poem
      about to happen.
I struggle to see the poem about to happen.

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

Death Is Not Real Until You View the Body

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Even then, horror films teach us
to anticipate limbs rising from
coffin, wails from a mouth who
once had all teeth extracted
on a routine dentist visit.
If you never see the body,
death never happened.
My brother, who did not learn
to swim, sailed with the Coast
Guard. After that he never left
Ohio again. He is confined
somewhere, beyond some wall,
as far from me now
as he was before.

(originally published in The Headlight Review, Winter 2022)

Leak

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Amber water dripping from the ceiling–
inadequacies from above. Last night I drank

a strawberry margarita & saw on your father
the face of your sister. He poked a hole in the tile

with a ballpoint pen. Asked for a hammer
nails or a screwdriver & we had none. The

rain at war with this city flooding three days &
I face temperance by drinking less & choose

games at bars we fold up at the end of each
loss then go home to watch movies because

the self grows this way forward. You study
heavy books I lay on the rock futon in our guest

room far from the tarp across our bed & the new
carpet stained from what we cannot stop. Water

follows least resistance the contractor says.
I need small emergencies to seal these gaps.

(originally published in White Wall Review, Winter 2021)

Deviled Eggs

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

My father despised even the word
Satan. Believed our house cursed
if ever I were to bring a Ouija board
home. And he preached the dangers
of using the word fool– an insult,
he said, from the mouth of Lucifer.
As a family, we went to the theater
to watch Titanic, but didn’t stay to
see the ship sink. We left soon after
previews due to the devil’s language.
What set him off was a god damn.
We weren’t even allowed deviled
eggs. I never ate one until I made
a batch in my twenties with an ex, but
the mess was too mustardy. Dirty
dishes on the counters of a cramped
kitchen. Today– this slushy Christmas
Eve– a friend drops a fresh batch
of demons on our porch, and I hold
the first egg in my hand, a chalice
almost holy, the swirl a flourish,
a handheld soft-serve mountain
top. I devour the lot– all six gifts–
without fearing the sin of gluttony.

(originally published in SPANK the CARP, Winter 2023)