by James Croal Jackman
the streetlights have that angelic glow.
green sun with a halo or sickly lion
mane. you tell me don’t tell the cops
that when we get pulled over. because
halfway through the drive the trees
taste extra sweet. that extra hint
of mint we take to your friend’s
house with the glowing purple
pool where kids throw pines
into a ceramic pit and cause
magic. or witchcraft. we leave
the party when someone drops
their beanie on a candle
and burning wool causes
a dog-nose to pull the alarm
with our mouths. whoever
did this needs to leave. wasn’t
us but we leave to catch fire-
works on the rooftop of
my apartment. you cocoon
in my beige polyester
blanket. pour tequila
over ice to bring to frigid
mountaintop. midnight
comes with my hands all
over you, yours all over me.
we dance to the house
music in each other, choosing
this view over the burning horizon.
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 The River, Mangrove Review, and Packingtown Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville, Tennessee. (jamescroaljackson.com)