pennsylvania

You’ll Know Me Always by the Red Door

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

you said the first time I picked you up
on our way to a family-style dinner &
then we drove through curvy hills I am
not yet comfortable with, the darkness
now so fitting.

I came empty-
handed, I didn’t want to drink
too much then drive you home. &
we didn’t know anyone who’d be
at our table but you’re better with
strangers. The restaurant was on
a corner facing a bus stop, &
people watched as I drove doughnuts
around the dual-railroad tracks
adjacent, seeking a place to park
not marked by sign or road decay.

I wanted to talk to you more
about anything, but you opened
my driver door
& walked me in.

(originally published in Words & Whispers, Winter 2023)

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)

On Sassafras the KEPT ONES

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

                         In the alley toward the strip yellow
                       plant caution tape walking through trash

                                 valley to Iron City Beer no one
                             needs to pack bags stepping on

                    white rocks on Sassafras the KEPT ONES
                           under clouds. Wonder who makes

                    it out alive. Plastic bag with Lysol
                           wipe flapped in the wind when tossed

                        in the trash. Another event stupidly
                               beautiful to admire. When I look away

                     I could crash into sunflower NO PARKING
                                        signs. What masochist places

                                  these in the middle of a long busy stretch
                                      of sidewalk? Now bees won’t leave

                          me alone in this heat

(originally published in Spinozablue, Fall 2022)

April 6, 2020

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

We rearranged the patio
though no one’s allowed
back. Silver chairs survived
the winter, now the virus.
The navy rug we slid on
brick, under long legs.
We hung string lights under
nostalgic blue, a horsefly
floating by. We put our porch
tables there in negative sun
when I said the new people
watching is through barbed
wire, through dead weeds
overlooking distant sidewalk
behind the abandoned printing
press and the parking lot
of Rite-Aid. There
I saw a congregation
shouting and prowling
abandoned concrete.
All I could picture
was ubiquitous spit–
how will the world
seem clean when
we are allowed
the world again?
Beaks of birds,
always lurking.

(originally published in Ginosko Literary Journal, Summer 2021)

Introvert Tuesday

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Living in the golden-shadowed
window reflection through bam-
boo, such is the layered tone

of the rest of my day, nose
sore and red, I am urged
by friends to celebrate (this fall

day fifty and slow, so sunny).
Though my sentinel self rises
from the seat it sits in– mind

released from body, you have
fulfilled your duty– stay home.

(originally published in The Wise Owl, Winter 2023)

Serious

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Vodkas ignite a serious conversation we sing cacophony
our mouths open machinery in the room whirs the gears
clank and then the whole dark bar lifts its legs and flies
                                                                                no windows though
we perceive sudden shifts as turbulence impending
storms we move as far from as we can talk about

(originally published by Mad Swirl, Winter 2022)

Zone 28

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Tara, the arcade was not the answer
(air hockey shots & bowling)   such
fantastical surrendering     with hollow
hunger     & the terrapin match /
between dinosaurs Maureen was
drunk & screaming. typical
punch bowl.    red & strung
with lights I lied about my blue
ice I said     I did not have enough
but I drove to Taco Bell next door
& ate five soft ones     texted
you I made it (though I live somewhere
different now)    home    if I move
how will the wind know
the difference?

(originally published in DREICH, Fall 2023)