This army of cicadas returns home
from a distant war– old love, we
retreat to our comforts after pulling
weeds– Kentucky Mule burns,
melting ice at the bottom of
the glass, I am on your couch
then inevitably your floor,
your hand on my knee.
Chatter from the gathering rises
just outside the back door,
footsteps up the stairs,
and we embrace against
the humming refrigerator,
pushing toward a lush
new vegetation.
(originally published in Adelaide, Fall 2019)
Too tired to play a love song–
the strings on this violin must be sick.
Pizzicato, pizzicato. Pestering
the soundscape. Some days are for sitting
in bed arguing– the toilet flushes.
Your roommate must be sick
of us on the verge of breaking up and
throwing too much of ourselves against
the wall. The bang-bang-bling to distract
ourselves– we contract ourselves to another
week, at least. Then the same: four
bland walls and our muted voices
pestering the soundscape of
what we used to call Paradise.
(originally published in Setu, Summer 2020)
You paint a heron blue
on brown branch. You
always create.
Your violin blurs into
hand-written sheet
music. Sunshine tints
your hair red. In autumn
you bury yourself
in leaves, tune strings
in the shadows to
summon the sun
and feed violets.
(originally published in Cacti Fur, Winter 2019)
we didn’t do yoga except your feet
on my shoulders & months later
you zip past me with my new lover
on your bicycle the acacias stink
of memory you see us arm
in arm on the way to the library
as we used to too but when we
kissed was a web spiders clung to
a hunger many legs couldn’t satisfy
(originally published in WINK, Winter 2020)
Our shared strength wanes–
vaxxed, we talk about the end
like a peek of sunrise through
the blinds. Yes, beyond
winter depression we just had
depression and didn’t know
it. Spring sun’s out and
we are outside drinking.
Kids graze by like
the virus never happened.
But I was there. I was
strong. Even as a kid,
finding my father crumpled
on the floor and convulsing,
eyes rolled to the back of his
head during his stroke,
I calmly dialed 911
and waited until the
ambulance arrived, and
I was fine the whole time.
But when my sister
screeched her SUV’s tires
into our driveway, I let
go. A lifeboat. I ran
into her arms, crying,
not knowing how to say
anything I wanted to say,
and she just held me
and said it’s going
to be okay– but she
didn’t know. This past
year, I’ve held you to tell
you it’s going to be okay,
but how could I know?
Now that the end is in
sight, we wait for the light,
wilting in its arms to meet it.
(originally published in Capsule Stories, Spring 2021)
We danced; gorillas
covered their ears
behind the glass
(originally published in Dodging the Rain, Spring 2020)
When I come home from work,
you ask me– drunk– to turn on
music, shoot tequila with lime.
But my stomach hasn’t settled
after a long day in the plague.
Today, in the office– the blue-
faced accountant lumbered into
his white pick-up truck mid-day
to go home. Gabby insists the
devil’s inside her. Natalie says
she’s walking on string. Jim–
healthy since 2014– told of a
friend who had bird flu and
survived, but lost a thumb
(years later being something
even he could laugh about).
But I feel fine, beside the knot
in my gut. I am told to eat bread,
rice, applesauce, and toast to settle
the stomach, but I choose burger,
rare, because I want to sail a shore
with risk. To fight fire with…
I know I live in raging flames.
But everything around me
seems tame and far away–
cancer, car accidents, shootings.
This is what people joke about.
We assume we’ll see tomorrow
those who leave today. But look
at the bags under our eyes, prune
skin we are ourselves, sapped of
sun within bricks of artificial light.
(originally published in The Cannon’s Mouth, Fall 2019)
You marry a Republican– hard not to judge
though I am trying, buoyant at my soft seat,
fingers hovering over a litany of criticisms–
my tongue is held, not fully unfurled onto
my wooden desk. My entirety disappointed
in my restraint while you merge into a beast,
boldly becoming a citizen I do not recognize.
(originally published in Evening Street Review, Summer 2022)
wasn’t that how life
was supposed to go?
ah, college followed
the whims of fun.
it turns out I stayed out
too late in its shadow
and now capitalism
is the only one
who wants me to follow.
he says
you’re thirty now
so have some drinks
and pizza
if you want
dab the grease
with a napkin first
but don’t limit
yourself to one
(originally published in children, churches, and daddies, Fall 2019)
Worth inextricably tied to the throttle
I am unable to press forever and
ever, amen, where to lie
down and get some rest? Hallelujah,
livin’ by the bottle without drinking
anything alcoholic, not tonight
at least, not before the long drive
to work, paved highways, praise,
hell on the range is to pay
all your bills at once
and wait a month.
(originally published in Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles, Summer 2022)
James Croal Jackson 