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| James Croal Jackson |
Dating Someone Who Has the Same Surname
She calls me bro. My mom
sees photos, says you have
the same nose.
I say you
do,
too, clicking through
our slideshow of vacation,
the countryside in Italy.
Is it weird we
kind of look alike?
Siblings kissing?
Who’s thinking that?
My mom, on the couch:
if a couple look
like twins, they may
be meant to be.
For a year
we seem married.
When asked–
family.
***
Friday
Evening Preceding the Election, 2020
This
could be the last weekend
before certain uncertainty.
Yes, I am a secret pessimist.
This year has been good
for that. I lost my line
of work due to pandemic,
but started a new one
born from it. When you
were crying from your
campaign job, worried
your boss might not
let you go to your
needed appointment
on Thursday, I told
you what you're
crying about isn't
your Thursday
appointment.
We're afraid
of what we
may be living
in on Wednesday.
***
Sweetheart
The
night
my
sweetheart
calls
me
sweetheart
for the
first time,
her big
toes
pop out
of holes
on both
socks.
We play
a game–
as we
usually do–
this
time with
our
feet wrestling.
Hers
overtake
mine
against
my
minimal effort,
just
how I want.
She
says
my
feet are eating
yours. Can I kill
you
in your sleep
one
night
and
eat you?
And
while I laugh
I
remember for months
she has
mentioned
that
her brain
is not
right–
refusing
specifics.
In the
summer we called
911 on
a stranger
overdosing
in a
festival field–
the
song on stage still
playing,
the beats
of
reggae rose
with
the drone of
a
distant voice–
we left
him
once we
waved
down
the responders.
We
stood in the grass
drinking
mojitos
in the
sun
without
protection,
near
children blowing
bubbles
that floated
over
the man on the stretcher.
She
talked about
how she
prefers
her
milk unpasteurized
and her
red meat
raw.
Lamb uncooked
in her
kufta, beef
Pittsburgh
rare,
look
it up. When she
fed
me beef
tartare
later I
wanted
the
rest, too, knifing
portions
quickly
onto my
plate.
I said except
for sushi
I’ve
always been
afraid
to eat raw meat.
And she
asked me,
what
are you afraid of?
***
I
wore a gray-black striped shirt. You made
me
a cookie dough ice cream cake. We drank
Rebel
IPAs that ended with a stabbing pain
in
your stomach. You asked, are you mad I
can’t
sleep
with you?
We drew a storm with cigarettes,
exchanged
darkened clouds in our back alley.
And
yes, we smelted iron before we slept,
and
through this photo, I remember.
***
old jeans upside down
spill from honeycomb
hamper bending halfway
to carpet– and I feel
invisible– light
in the sense I fill
but am not
with you– a wardrobe
palette
with holes
in the story
***
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