Jackson

Crashlanded. Wheels torn off, emptied lamps [un]staring, strange innards exposed and tossed. Wreck, hulk, husk, hunkered on dirt, becoming dirt. A sapling reaches up from her guts. First published in The Broadkill Review Read more

Waiting for Venetian lines lines lines crammed crumpled under paired square staring windeyes. Gaping sash crooked mouth: what spilled out? What content behind the solemn concrete paintedwhite brow? No nose: can’t smell the dim plastic pipes creeping over the dank dark wall. What flows? What ghostmonster lurks silver bullet train[ed] all eye in that mouth,… Read more

If I may have your love I will treasure it not as a jewel, not as a keepsake, but as a favourite book, kept on the table, taken on the train. I might bend its spine. I’ll try not to break it but I can’t promise. If some pages loosen I’ll tape them back in… Read more

I hope he’s sleeping in in her arms and lazily making love and having breakfast and all of that. I hope that. Yeah, it hurts. But it hurts a whole lot more to imagine him lonely. Read more

Walking on Queensberry Street one Saturday night we find a single red rose: longstemmed, cellophaned, perfect. I pick it up in my black-gloved hand. If you’d been anyone but you I’d have said “For you sir” with a flirty bow and a smile, with a performance. We discuss how it might have got there and… Read more

Just text me, will you? I don’t know where you are but I’m in the park with my phone, crying behind sunglasses So life is really friends & their babies and not these obsessions and loves? Life is that? All the shallow smiles? A man does tai chi, or something. Does it help? He does… Read more