panera

Falling Rock

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

As soon as a stone (from where,
who knows?) cracked my wind-
shield during a delivery I quit

my job as a driver. I zagged
right from the highway’s
middle lane to the median

and set the car in park,
but could not control my thoughts–
chest throbbing, engine thrumming.

I had to step out and breathe
before I could convict the
quartz intending to harm me.

All smooth and small, I was not
sure which was the right rock,
scanning gravel to see several

similar enough. But the wolf
among them, I know, wanted to
break the glass, blind me

and puncture my jugular, only
for me to be saved by a surgeon
who would never fully believe

the story. I avoided death this time,
alive on the side of the road, looking
back in search of a falling rock sign.

(originally published in Bond Street Review, Winter 2021)

Disc Golf

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

My excuse for a poor score:
the frisbee has teeth. And a mind.
It chose to rebel inside the wind–

I agree, of course, when you say
our food delivery job is temporary.
We have hours before we need

to clock in– an ordinary morning
straddling the Olentangy river.
Any way to get our minds off

routine: when scanning the field
for ticks, I find nothing but
excuses, for never becoming

the suit-and-tie my parents
wanted me to be, my score
well over par, another

wayward toss into the breeze
hopes for clarity on a journey
I know not where will lead.

(originally published in Penmen Review, Fall 2020)

Ladder

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Asking where
the ladder led
was stupid
you said up
to the roof
and of course
it does
I guess I’m
saying we both
work at Panera
and when
thinking about
my prospects
they are not high
because if I were
to grab a rung
and lift myself up
I would probably
fall but if I didn’t
the locked door
at the top means
I’d struggle for an
unspectacular view

(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Summer 2020)

Delivery

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Because the patient gives me the wrong address–
because when I call my manager, she tells me
keep searching– I sprint with cheesy tortellini
down eleven dim flights, cursing broken
elevators. On the ground floor Panera
calls again and asks where are you? I say
in the hospital. After silence, I clarify– for
a customer– and she tells me who you seek
is next door. I lament the time I wasted
driving this black bag in a small vessel
to the wrong drop-off, and even more, time
spent walking from one mistake to the next.
Hospital lights hue everything sickly.
What is it I am trying to deliver? I look
through the inventory of my belongings
and, after the hand-off, bear the lightness.

(originally published in Freshwater Literary Journal, Spring 2021)

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)

Panera

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I lost the important things
sweeping baguette crumbs
underneath an industrial
fan– cyclicality, the broom’s sashay
from one end of the room to
the next– sand blown from the center
of the desert, and how selfish
to keep water in the bottle
with other mouths to nurture.

 

(originally published in Adelaide, Fall 2019)

Say Grace at the Drive-Thru

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Voice sings through static
in the dark.

God forgive
me my body–

jumbled
chirping syllables.

One at a time. Heartbeat
crinkling in a sugarpacket.
Sand on beach.

I’m thankful. No one

inside
but you.

She asks what you want.
Ministerial. Ocean

breeze
through open

window. Flat stale wall.
What do I need?

More salt, more salt, more salt,
amen.

(originally published in Punk Monk Magazine, Summer 2019)

Interview with Marissa at Panera

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Sitting across the small table in the company of bagel
art and clanking dishes transported from trash to the back,
she asks no questions about what I’d bring to this table,
just asks about my experiences working with The New
York Times and making ends meet in studios by the sea
in southern California, how different that life was,
how, starting Friday, I’ll make a good delivery driver

 

(originally published in The Literary Nest, Spring 2019)