in darkness we wade
into this shimmering orb
a crystalized common
ground beneath the palm
trees
in this desert spanning
the time
since I saw you last I
lived in my car
when you went on vacation
and handed me the key to
your home
for the week wood panels
covering
your windows blocking
light
I remember thinking I’ve
lost
my sense of place
like
sleeping through a
daydream
staring at the ceiling
from your pond-sized bed
I could not wait
to leave the key
in the top drawer
of your dresser and
never see you again
because I didn’t
want to tell you
your home was more
like a prison at least
when living
in a car there’s the
illusion of motion
with nowhere else to go
I find myself with you
now in this outdoor pool
swimming on its own
James Croal Jackson
James Croal Jackson (he/him) has a chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), and poems in Pacifica, Reservoir, and Rattle. He edits The Mantle (themantlepoetry.com). Currently, he works in the film industry in Pittsburgh, PA. (jimjakk.com)
Tags:
Poetry