By James Croal Jackson
We are quiet when
We are quiet when we fuck–
you whisper, make obsolete
my lover. My ear hairs
tingle. The first time we came
you said you’d never return
under the roof in which you
placed your possessions. Lust
dust in a sunbeam in the living
room where you thought– with
him– you’d make a home.
Calendar year
blue wheat
meat on the heart
he told me
gaze the world
to understand
heaven
the angels
scream under
trees
their glossy aura
spines
James Croal Jackson (he/him) is a Filipino-American poet working in film production. He has two chapbooks, Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021) and The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017). He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)