Poetry: James Croal Jackson

James Croal Jackson

Visiting Home

Lying in darkness the score is

again snores, always twenty minutes

removed from anywhere, my family–

harder and harder to acquiesce

demands my childhood created,

the future a fog ever-expanding

today and every day I’m supposed

to be thankful (I am, but enough

with the bronze spoons and

Styrofoam) for sufficient means

and meals, the white noodles'

shadows drooping off my plate

onto the soft red tablecloth

my mother lovingly draped

to prepare for our arrival.

***

Modern Birdhouse

You brought a birdhouse

for us to build. First step:

sand around the edges.

Last step: enjoy the home

we made for living things.

I love how you look at birds.

From my apartment window,

your joy expands the view.

The Batman building needles

Nashville sky. We imagine

futures in these clouds. When

the first snow fell, you called

but I couldn't see the flurry

from my fifth floor darkness,

all cold a distant thought.

Christmas approaches

and you ask what I want.

***

Revolving Sushi

Speeding toward Kura

to make a reservation

I balance my desire

to see the moon (sliver

mode the dark shining

like a pool hall

with the desire to not

die driving the complex

Pittsburgh loops and

hills before the

descent into the

mouth of stars

that wilder me

like I’ve never

seen a constellation

in someone’s neighborhood

***

Silver Bells

In San Carlos the crows

pick at yesterday's empty

bag of fast food

at Peet's coffee

the guy beside me

talks operating system

building a team

of solid folks

and a woman

with a purple

yoga mat

walks from the neighbor

Yoga Health Center

It's the day after

Christmas

and Silver Bells

is playing

"Enough already"

a crow is doing a catwalk

on the three layer

orange cake building

across the street

an alarm screeches

in the back

every five minutes

like there's a burglary

or a fire

and surrounding

conversations

continue

both focused

and unfocused

a blur

I have

a part in

somewhere

by the window

***

The Cold Is Nice

The marrow of that argument

suspends in that hanging space

of airlessness halfway to the moon.

The cold is nice. And the not-breathing.

I'm wishing us luck with the launch.

I hope we resume ascending.

***

Bio: James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet in film production. His latest chapbooks are A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023) and Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022). Recent poems are in The Garlic Press, Remington Review, and ONE ART. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville, Tennessee. (jamescroaljackson.com)

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Setu, December 2025