"Cold", "E & K 4EVA", "Houseboat", "How Good We Have It", "Therapy", "Free Boba Tea", & "January 2023" by James Croal Jackson

Cold

I used to be a tree

leaves of ambition

now I cannot find 

myself in sudden 

snow. Yes, I would 

melt in your hands

a gray towel to soak

up. What washed away

washed me ashore,

cold sand scratching 

skin. My body yearns 

in dry winter air.

E & K 4EVA

It’s the running office joke.

And maybe it’s cool.

It’s high school. Both of you

laugh silently 

at the mouth of the hallway.

                              I never would have known 

them behind me if not for the muscles 

whispering when he flexed in his black shirt, 

leaning against a board full of push

                              pins,

and the printer having ceased–

finally– it's endless work.

Houseboat

Sleeping on a houseboat–

the world     a soft

          earthquake, what

creaks if not the heart

this worn on marina water

       ropes tugging at your

limits.

Climb the ladder to the

wheel and pretend to steer

this stupid thing in the only

way it was never meant

to work.

How Good We Have It   

I turn the shower knob clockwise and fly open

the curtains. I shiver even though the world

burns beyond my walls. No one in the mirror.

An empty plastic bottle of Listerine (a

puddle of nuclear winter-blue at the bottom).

Half-open toiletry bag, though I have

not vacationed in years. Inside, a travel

toothbrush. Cheap plastic. Did you know

we eat a credit card a week? And so,

this is what my body knows. Filled

to gills with the promise of money,

money itself being its own shaky

promise. Power? Freedom? When 

I step out of the tub, dripping pieces

of me that are not me, having soaked

in a week of being alive in a borrowed

and now mechanical but breathing 

body, artificial as I am, inessential, 

keeping the past alive with LASIK

eyes, a genuine VIN– the wet bottoms 

of my feet collect accumulated fur 

of my animal in a midcentury rug,

a shedding body that has become

part of another one.

Therapy

A tree of marbles, faded–

fruit, or poisonberry, with 

its long and tired branches

carrying the weight 

it never knows, sags 

in front of the new

and bustling market

in the center of the city.

Breathes in the fumes

of passing cars. Me, too, 

and the lanternflies, on a 

road to feeling meaning. 

O, to have an insect graze 

my leg before the sun 

does the same– I want 

to arm wrestle the emotions

I can’t hold on to, where 

our elbows lock on a surface 

that is not temporary, palms

sweaty with each other. Put me 

in a tournament where I make it

to the final match– against

joy, the highest seed– and win. 

If the necessary muscles 

are sore the next morning,

weak and wise and hopeful– 

the wind reminding me, 

the strong tree bending–

I’ll take the rematch. 

Each time.

For as long 

as it takes.

Free Boba Tea

at the blood bank

without your sister

the weight room 

without your strength

at North Market 

without money

the soft spheres

in this tea

go down 

easy

which is unlike 

me

January 2023

if anyone asks

I'm at the bar to fight

winter depression

a clear straw 

indicates

intention

water flowing

however I

can get it

just as sun

emits light

that satiates

I'll dance eventually

to the best 

of my ability

handing back black 

straws to whoever asks

in the lingering holiday

lights that spell

a start to a year that was

never new

being one continual

floodgate of all

existence

pouring into

my hands

into my can

I'm dancing

the beluga

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 ITERANT, Stirring, and The Indianapolis Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville, Tennessee. (jamescroaljackson.com)