Saturday, October 16, 2021

White Mulch by James Croal Jackson




My face pressed to the window screen – black pick-up trucks 

pass. A little bit of breeze is recommended to ground yourself. 

Such violence in a chicken nugget. If I think about vegetable 

intelligence, I will allow myself only to eat white mulch. When 

becoming grass, nothing happens to the soul. Clumps of earth 

inside my fingernails when I scratch at the dirt, and still I weed 

myself to the idea that beauty is ubiquitous in nature. At the sky 

I choke on the concept of air. That my lungs work all living 

hours, ununionized, is betrayal. My desk chains me 

to the dark, and still I have the heart to look out a window?

James Croal Jackson (he/him) is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. He has two chapbooks (Our Past Leaves, Kelsay Books, 2021 and The Frayed Edge of Memory, Writing Knights, 2017) with one forthcoming: Count Seeds With Me (Ethel, 2022). He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, PA.


No comments:

Post a Comment