house

A Light Snow Through the Window

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Out of all activities
to do in the world,
we choose to watch

what melts. The sugar-
frosted grass, low hills, love
of our red-brick building.

If our conversations
are jet streams, if high-
altitude, high stakes,

tension– let me
please leave and be
reborn as something cold

and forgettable.
What dinosaur wanted
to become a fossil?

In our years together
we accumulated enough
to burrow deep into

the earth. Millions
of years from now,
what some sentience

will discover is that
we were once separate.

(originally published in The Field Guide, Fall 2023)

Closure

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

there is no end
to wanting a better
anything. I have
driven through
stop signs on rural
roads in afternoon
light envisioning
the reality where
I have arrived
faster at our house
and you’re happy
about it for those
few extra seconds
but time is fog
that dissipates
anyway, being
that yesterday
we loved each other
and today we
are sitting at the top
of the stairs to our
bedroom petting
the cat who survived
our downfall
and mourning the one
whose heart clotted
because of it. you
notice bubbles of
water in the blue
textured wall and
we burst into
the day’s remainder,
moving temporary
belongings around
again, this time
with no effort
of emotion, no pull-
each-other-closer
because the house
has seen its share
of endings and
beginnings, I’m
sure, if we are
to frame it in
those terms
already the memories
have taken control.

(originally published in OPEN: a journal of arts & letters, Fall 2024)

Reruns

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I sit by the fan
this May afternoon
alive forever
in the green
of our home-
made salad
(spinach, chickpea,
yellow pepper, tahini),
sore and sweaty
from carrying air
conditioners up
steep hallway stairs.
Using the heat-
gun and pliers
I straighten
my brain’s
antenna.
Our argument
becomes static
on a tube TV
in someone
old’s living
room.

(originally published in San Antonio Review, Winter 2023)

Your Offer

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

on back porch with pounding
rain puddles amass you ask

advice an offer a hornet
nest in the gutter we invite

friends over my memory
short my throat closed to

organ tunes in harmony
answers inside aluminum

you hand me your phone
say look another malady

the dirt clogged drain
for pests to fester in

(originally published in Taj Mahal Review, Winter 2022)

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)

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)

The Days Are Bored With My Language

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

we are sitting closer
to the television in a brand
new bedroom not
that we bought a new
house rather rearranged
everything the television
Playstation mini
tables dustballs morals
we never labeled
outside obvious
corners the air
conditioning vents in the faraway
summer I hope never
comes yes I am this
amount jaded the new colorful
reflections of the TV
beside its fresh horizon
almost like the screen’s
outside where I can finally live
my real life in pixelated terms
I know I know I am
conflicted about even
the architectural oxygen the wood
was inspected man just not
by me I mean girders in the semi
shallow underground been
scrubbing raw potato skins
only still to grok the boiled
intentions steaming the
mind’s kitchen I don’t got
knives I don’t got any
memory of the chicken
carrot stew just I often
feel infinitesimal I can’t
stop filling overfilling
the pot hot water simply
abundance very thankful
for plastic bags stuffed
in the cold seam of the
world our window
won’t open

(originally published in datura, Summer 2021)

Valentine Pizza Risk

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

lost last night’s gold after the Adriatico’s pizza
guy gave us a tip: wait
                                          for me to leave

strummed strings past afternoon stairs
mozzarella between our teeth      hands on hips
                                                                              lips and tongue

I was your favorite human for one night out of a billion
you said and said     kept me a dice roll away my bedroom just
                                                                                                      a flick of your fingers

 

(originally published in 8 Poems, Fall 2019)

Wall, Edge, Chandelier

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

past the corner of this house’s Kubrick architecture
     on the couch a bundle of eyes
                               a slopping visual stain
       but it’s true. my vision is blurry
            I spent the walking sidewalk
            grapes inside my right cheek
    thinking how I want to win you.
                so romantic, you
                with a stranger in my house
                                about to
                          dine on the fruit of
                       ancient gods and I am laughing
                                            now to have the ghost
                                            within my walls, my green
                                                        heart long and longing
                                                                 lunging out my chest
                                                                       it sticks to paint
                                                                                  like spaghetti

 

(originally published in streetcake, Summer 2018)

Widow

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Every night Mom drowns
in loud TV next to dusty organ
bloomed with portraits. Family’s

family, including things:
the security system greets her
when returning from the store.

The red carpet, the torn couch,
the gunky dishwasher. Coming home
from work through a sea of dark Ohio

into a reverberating house of off-white
rooms so silent the garage door screams
shut. The floors don’t creak, they wail

and faucets cry. A cabinet full
of Cabernet. A corkscrew hangs,
rusted at the hinge.

(originally published in Oyster River Pages, Summer 2018)