by James Croal Jackson
I know the risks when I make the journey– after running through shadows beneath dark desk, I must evade the heavy stomping of giants who do not see me and black wheels that zag back and forth on the bottom of a bony leather rolling chair. And if I can get past that, there’s the barren carpet desert, a field of dust kicking up exhaust to sneeze. I huff and puff past junk I’m told is poison yet I always want to eat– crumbs from a swan sandwich, push pins, script meat. And at the edge of the expanse I am out of breath with miles to go– a table ten towers tall to run under. I close my eyes and sprint until the window by where you sit and I tap you on the shoe. After you call my name I say that’s me! then your palms become a cradle lifting me to lap where the world is warm honey sunshine. After hours and hours to rest and recover– you glide me over towers, the dust field, the rolling chair, the stomping shoes, the shadows, like these obstacles were nothing when you place me back in my blanket. For you, bringing me home is the easiest thing in the world. ___ James Croal Jackson works in film production. His most recent chapbooks are Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022) and Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021). Recent poems are in Stirring, SAND, and Vilas Avenue. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)