food

Tamales at Andrea’s

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

At her Penn Hills home an endless view
of rain green wide windows. With sink hot
faucet water we tear banana leaf a piece
of wallpaper press the masa they prepped
into dried dark a sturdy table.

Drop sauce, fork pork, wrap ribbon
makes pride and we learn to live
again. Almost a year still fresh
the big bowl of dead animal we gather
around. Andrea says steam in leaf

adds floral flavor, a life
to death jiggling within us–
oh, sweet touch of camaraderie,
hugs on a late December
Saturday. You were afraid

we started the day too early, but
we are in our mid-thirties. I wanted
to begin yesterday the festivities
that let us remember why we
remain alive– brown butter cookies

and the love, so much love in the living
room. When we get to the presents–
having already unwrapped our proud
banana leaves, there are Penguin
classics, band t-shirts, soy candles

but what we’d trade for anything–
white elephant– is more time.

(originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Summer 2024)

Twix

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

If there is a bowl
of Twix at work,
I will act apathetic

when others are
around. Alone I will
bury open wrappers

tenfold in the trash.
Perhaps I have been
watching too much

true crime television,
or lived in the U.S.
too long– standing

over candy, ripping open
Twix after inadequate
Twix, I find the initial

bite of chocolate
caramel into biscuit
enough to make me

want the whole stick,
the whole candy bowl,
everything I can have

that’s for the taking,
like anything has ever
been entitled to me.

(originally published in PPP Ezine, Winter 2023)

Temporary

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I often dream of simpler times–
driving my car to a customer

with a bag full of food, and poof–
gone. Then the memory fades

in an instant. All of time
passing. Right now. Into the ether.

The clock has dropped its weary
hand a tick downward.

The other hand desperately
reaches toward the sun.

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

Late-Summer Saturday, 2021

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

we walked a horseshoe through the Strip
ginger whiskey coffee whiskey honey whiskey apple whiskey
no matter what I always see this brand-new city

slamming glasses into a blue-skied table
what’s passed around we finish swiftly
while friends attempt to maintain some order

never too early to rush into a burger order
time being what it is
we consume all we can

(originally published in DREICH Magazine, Fall 2023)

The Hunger

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

First were fruits drifting down like feathers,
their sugar shells & caramel centers gooey.

When the fruits stopped fruiting, she scraped
off the tree’s gingerbread bark using flint

as a spatula. Next gone were leaves–
the sweet ones– but the branches chewed

like celery so were spat out. Feet swollen,
hands rugburn red, she climbed all

night, eating, the tree only sour leaves
& skeleton, exposed heart beating

before a death between teeth, strawberry ice
cream gushing past the mauve, ravenous moon.

(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Summer 2021)

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)

deeply a pot of cheap ramen

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

betting is fun I bet were I rich I would lose a lot
more than now losing’s not a competition though
at its core it is an apple beneath a heap of peaches
shower soap I never liked peaches have you ever
sniffed steam emanating from chicken Top Ramen
it is not clean it is not soap I dispose of everything
the flame I inhale plastic I ingest plastic waiting on
the clock to change from 12:23 to 12:24 I pour my meal
into plate-bowl snorting steam never inhale too deeply a
pot of cheap ramen I know I am saving money I know I am
betting a lot on fake economies blowing my breath onto
unpackaged carcinogens Michael once said in our apartment he
hoped to never see me eat this shit again this was years ago
soggy noodle soup coiled springs I hold in my mouth tongue
salt nothing but the salt I then lick off my chin it’s nothing just
pennies of salt I will be hungry again soon so why must I savor
every writhing U at bowl’s bottom like each bite will be my last

(originally published in Count Seeds With Me [Ethel Zine & Micro-Press], Spring, 2022)

Chicken Imitations

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

We made Arrested Development-esque chicken imitations
at the restaurant– bakawk, cheep-cheep, wakka wakka–

being young, I thought that was the language of love.
We always laughed across the chasm of the room

when we shut shop, squeezing soap rags into heart buckets,
wiping fresh clear streaks on mahogany tables. I vacuumed

pita crumbs and invisible dust, emptied bags thinking,
perhaps, I was on the verge of vanquishing loneliness,

that I was sprinkling zaatar on a plate of foggy shish
tawook, a taste you might return to.

(originally published in Vagabond City Lit, Spring 2023)