3 Poems by James Croal Jackson
Feedback on Your Recent Applebee’s Order
Honestly? I feel horrible
now– but even
before the quesadilla
burger with egg-tasting
tortillas, the liquid guac
spread on the tops of bacon,
diced tomatoes, and half-
moon patties– even before boneless
wings of garlic and parmesan–
America’s Favorite– I was
scrolling through our
text exchange from my favorite
month. And when May
ended so did we. Ever
try to fit a quarter
pound of oozing meat
in between a split
tortilla? If it weren’t
for the grease, I would
still be with you right
now– how at the soggy
bottom of the meal,
I couldn’t wipe
my hands.
Intake
my heart is sore I want peppermint
ice cream to salve
sweetness
in all its delectable metaphors
if I gorge gorge gorge sugar milk I will a vat
nothing wrong with that
the heart is churning wheel
without a driver license
in Pennsylvania I have been
alone in the frozen aisle
running my fingers along
icy sediments on paperboard pints
in Ohio my childhood
couldn’t figure out the bats that lived in my bedroom
okay I couldn’t sleep
inside the blanket of my spinning
thoughts which had large muscles
and carried me into the spidery basement
which would haunt me with webs
descending from lights that had not been changed
since the 1980s and my parents
were fine with letting insects fester
I curled on the hard-knuckled couch
doing easy work to save the world
and then my game staying down
as long as time itself an endless
tunnel without the green man exit
signs indicating how far the feet
to travel before I get anywhere
out of danger and what
to run from anyway besides
reality
A Clean Apartment
When Sarah lived here, the floors
annoyed her. Every speck, every
stain ever lurking, ever sticking.
She uses the vacuum she brought
in her tight gray shorts beneath her
black-and-white splotched top Jackson-
Pollacked, but not in the way Mary
Frances said I Jackson-Pollacked
her after our first night when she
said I would need a better reason
to ask any girl to come over– so,
do you want to meet my cats?
That was a year ago. Bleach seeps
from the bathroom. Sarah said she
was about to text me the other week,
trying to remember the name of a bar
I told her about (Never Never), then
decided not to bother me. She did not
know I desired to be bothered so I ask
what type of vacuum she bought as she
performs on her knees God’s miracles
scrubbing with wet rags– not a mop–
on the laminate of my floor, brown cat
fur splayed, the bland brand name–
Bissell– and its long purple plastic
broomstick handle. I don’t intend
to buy, but when she points it out
online, when she’s hunched over
me close with long fingers, I buy
the damn thing. I listen.
James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet working in film production. His latest chapbook is A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023). Recent poems are in The River, Mangrove Review, and Packingtown Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville, Tennessee.
Art by Annie Roenkae