Mark Jackley’s work has appeared in Fifth Wednesday, Sugar House Review, Natural Bridge and other journals. His new book of poems On the Edge of a Very Small Town is available for free at chineseplums@gmail.com.

WATCHING YOU DRINK VODKA IN THE SUN    

head back
throat bared
pink lips parted

when we wed
forget the ring
palm some sand and blow it

be the empty-handed
wind of my
surrender

DREAM

For K

like my father at the end, near blind, shuffling to
the kitchen, seeing fog
and walking into fog,
I search for you in flickering
woods and dream the Braille
I need, ten thousand pine
needles on bare feet

PLANTING PUMPKINS IN VIRGINIA

seventy-five,
from Hue,
she is kneeling in black earth

the seeds will live in darkness

she carefully
packs dirt

so that many suns
will rise

EVOLUTION

Falling asleep,
we cling to each other
as if baby monkeys

In the morning
we are Adam and Eve,
nothing between us but time

MY BROTHER SENDS ME A PICTURE OF MARIO

who drifted around
barefooted
in bluejean overalls,
died in a wreck,
maybe 18,
the beater
car he drove
would start
without a key—
he pushed
a button, rolled
towards
blind-curve
local legend,
1974

FOOTPRINTS

My cat, so weird.
Slinky Martian. Buddha with a bell.
Light footprint. But my father
is the one I wanted to mention. He’s dead,
a soldier who marched through every moment in combat boots,
even in his Barcalounger drinking budget wine.
His footprint’s deep. He wiggles his toes in the Mekong mud
of my flooded heart. Impossible to miss.

I FIND RICKIE LEE JONES IN A PHOTO BOOK
OF ICELANDIC BEAUTIES

Huh.
In a little shop
in Reykjavik,
page one hundred
something,
unsurprised the elves
have brought her here
she closes
her eyes and grins,
beautifully lost
in the frozen moment,
eternally at home
under that beret.

IN BED AT A VERY OLD INN

I became a Quaker

Joined the priesthood of all believers

The God in me stroked kissed entered the God in you

And the Underground Railroad hummed with liberation still

There was silence and more silence

Bursts of witnessing

Your breathing dream  was mine

Love a sacrament

Outside, geese were huddled in the cold of an early spring

WHERE I FELL

In the photo I studied online,
sad eyes. Wise,
a hint of slyness.
Rabbinical, in a way.
Falling in love with you
is to read an ancient alphabet
I do not understand
but seems a kind of music
sung in hushed voices
in a barn. The forest darkens.
No moon tonight.
A lone candle shines
softly on the hay.