lunch

Pounds of Turkey

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I am tired of lunch meat sandwiches
the cold beasts breathing down

my throat of history
harkening if not to past lives

then my previous ones too
sitting alone in Mom’s kitchen

the green and white table
under malfunctioning fan

with a clink in its swing
Wonderbread from Acme

could have been from anywhere
but the taste is familiar if not a burdened kind of sweet

I’ve moved to a Schwebels brand of cheap
wheat always on sale always lasts

for weeks until it’s eaten
this food chain lawlessly evolved

(originally published in The Field Guide Poetry Magazine, Fall 2023)

Whip Your Flame Hair Against Me

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

and I am on fire too ready
to burn Panera down
no one really wants this hospital

food its chemicals inside
that make it breathe the bread
is moving if you watch

close enough its heartbeat
in your mouth we are all on
fire this former dead living

animal a baguette string inside
my intestines there are wings
in my salad flapping dead cells

floating and all I can do is be
the sun and burn the whole world
then flush my throat with water

(originally published in Madness Muse Press, Fall 2020)

The Busier the Kitchen the Filthier the Dishes

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Your lunch spot becomes a haven on the ground
level of a tower between towers on rainy workdays.

Your eyes strained at the sight of a waterfall
of text and maybe you missed
an important error in copy
marketed to clients. Here, though,

the dishwasher sprays a thousand plates,
aiming spouts at cheese stains hardened
from sitting by the garbage in
the place where discarded trays should be.

Water pressure removes ceramic sin
eventually, an industrial machine
humming in silver efficiency,
skin rinsed beside it.

Glasses that pass the spot test emerge,
steam rising, but meat lodged between
prongs is wrestled out with wet finger.

Your fork drips from the steak
just in a salesman’s mouth.

 

(originally published in Stickman Review, Spring 2018)

Lunch with an Old Friend

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

wish I still knew how to talk about games
movies television sports

blue fish waddling onto soil of questions trudges
leaves bodyprints wet move

closer to some common thread we may yet find
yet know a fishing line in the reel of your hand

mouth brain our friendship was incorrigible
as the moon in a poem in a lit mag

super nintendo and the cement unfinished
scent of basements carpeted staircases doritos

always going down down down
affection every thump downward

like the rest of life tumbling
through deserts of thought mist sandstorm

the sun wrangles some truth out of stranded
windows translucent sunlight

shifting across the wooden table
of distance time summers

 

(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review, Summer 2018)