Relationship

Mitchell Ponds Inne

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

This the getaway
we take our butterflies to
yearly– the wings, do you

have a sinking
feeling? And slugs
slither along the sauna.

We toss cold water
over hot coals
of indifference.

There used to be no
privacy screen
over the windows

so we were on full
display, an everyman’s
Monet or Mona Lisa.

On the last day
of our relationship
you asked, do I look okay?

I said you
look okay. More swimming,
more coming-up-for-air,

coughing the words
out, choking on the heat
inside each one.

(originally published in Red Tree Review, Spring 2024)

I Want You to Think of Me All the Time

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

My partner says I want you
to think of me all of the time,
leaving knick-knacks: glow-
in-the-dark stars on the ceiling,
Miami Collection Post-Its,
a mylar balloon unicorn

that is thriving. She props it
on my lamp so it’s in my face
when I need more light. A kawaii
bumper sticker on my iPhone.
Hand-drawn cards in the drawer.

But I see tumbleweeds of dog hairs
and dust in the corners on the floor.
I find strands of your black
hair in my beard. I leave

last week’s dishes for not-my-present
self to find and when I see the balloon
on the lamp, I get it: you know
what keeps me going.

(originally published in Tower Poetry Society, Spring 2023)

Rectangular Rainbow

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

The clouds induce trance on the drive
home from work today. White sheep pile
atop each other on a ranch in Montana
until the weight of an oncoming storm
that never comes except for a stub of
rainbow that peeks from behind far hills.
In the open stretch of highway it reveals itself
as a rectangle floating in the middle of cerulean,
squiggly lines across it, a glitch of physics
my phone cannot capture. I text you from
the middle lane– soaring eighty– because
you love rainbows. You say you walked
around our block but could not find it.

When I arrive home I am filled with unknown,
spiritual vigor. We split a red, frozen pizza
then leave for a journey following our favorite
clouds above, on high alert for the rainbow.
Guided by pink translucent clouds in blue
outlines, you ask me holistically, what are your
career goals? I can’t stop searching upward,
awestruck by the air and rare beauty
in the world, in the center of our elevated
city of bridges and transitions and roads
that fall into each other in chaos you
must understand to survive. The sunset
is somewhere and I know our clouds
obscure it. I know my career involves
sacrifice but I am chasing film’s thrill.
The whims of our uppermost winds!
I have taken you along.

(originally published in I-70 Review, Summer 2024)

It’s Complicated

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Sure, I know the DJ at Belvedere’s tonight
but that is all I have. My body is an ocean
liner that imagined a destination when
departing, but lost its way mid-voyage
while passengers scream it’s okay!
It’s okay!
                  On simple days
I open the window and watch
clouds pass with my long-hair
cat, breathing in the breeze like
we’ve both never been outside
before, trying to find some
comfortable place to rest
with the rail jutting up,
a dull blade.

(originally published in Ink Sac, Summer 2023)

Fall Guys

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

gonna be a good dive
            pink windmills spin forever
                       I thanked you already
     I am always thanking you
consider this next apology all ready
               dizzy heights
                       I’ll file in the hi Sara folder
       maybe I will choose to drop
                       down to blue under-surface
                              where everyone’s at I miss that
           you mean I’m supposed to grab a tail
                     with these conveyor belts & keep it
         I don’t know my role
                             but the walls
                       have googly eyes & I don’t mean
                                            the stampede at the checkered line
             these same damn races every time
                      I’ve never watched the procession after me
          don’t worry you haven’t done anything wrong
                                                                                  yet
                          the situation’s complicated
                                                                        continue

(originally published in One, Fall 2022)

Sine

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

sometimes I am too conformed to the shape
of music to hear the trapeze and

trampoline of flute and synth flinging ever
toward the eternal soundscape. pigeon

percussion next door the clanking spoons
below– I think we need distance.

Your heartbeat swells across soundstage,
no stethoscope, no starlight though once

we wanted to be famous. or want. it is
complicated. we are more paranoid

of strangers than ever before. that’s
no baking sheet, it’s rustling leaves,

not your shoes or mine. You ask
questions I don’t have.

(originally published in Pirene’s Fountain, Summer 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)