I am full of vacancy and noise and technically six glasses
of water before bedtime. Much can be said about wanting
to purify yourself. I dipped myself in water again last
week. I’m telling you it works: you mash two bodies
together until fizzled and deflated on the cusp—saggy but
renewed. Steam leaves the bucket with a fat-lipped breath,
purple. Sometimes it does not work. By the hearth,
just your long, brown hair. By the heart, nothing.
Just a worn wood by the cabin in the woods.
Mountains of snow in my head—she freezes
my thoughts at the peak. A gambler. A hope.
Red strings. A harp. Faith. Burn, burn, burn.
James Croal Jackson’s poems have appeared in magazines including Isthmus, Common Ground Review, and Thin Air Magazine. He lives in Columbus, Ohio. Visit him at https://jimjakk.com or listen to his music at http://www.layzer.us.