Weird seeing how we’ve changed. In sticky
bars we were tornadoes swirling into drunk
arms. After a certain date we spake change
living in the new blotted heart of darkness.
The horizon had blest us thus far but faded
fast. I write poems & you write legislature.
Do better, you tell me, still, though it is
your will. You walk from the shore of the
bleeding Atlantic to break the binding quill
of former centuries. There is no place for
this here. Waves of black ink roiling in from
Hell. I always found your shield a comfort.
Interview with Marissa at Panera
Sitting across the small table in the company of bagel
art and clanking dishes transported from trash to the back,
she asks no questions about what I’d bring to this table,
just asks about my experiences working with The New
York Times and making ends meet in studios by the sea
in southern California, how different that life was,
how, starting Friday, I’ll make a good delivery driver
James Croal Jackson (he/him) has a chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), and poems in Columbia Journal, Rattle, and Reservoir. He edits The Mantle (themantlepoetry.com). Currently, he works in the film industry in Pittsburgh, PA. (jimjakk.com)