The Doubt That Follows Improv Class

by James Croal Jackson

Projection meaning screen is blurry.

I don’t want any part of.

Correct. I ended improv

class inspecting

my anxious habits–

has it been too long?

my demons asked.

                            I could not

answer honestly. Walked

away and waved

to the prospective

attention of no one.

Still, when clouds

are classically beautiful

I recall the simple mistakes.

No one counts

their turns, no one

passes their

inhibitions.

I scan the sky

for a piece of absolution.

Such indelicate pertinence,

this honest-to-however-many-

times I treat myself

like a stray without looking

away.

When You Went to Sleep It Was Fine

by James Croal Jackson

You dream of a cookie bowl you lick clean

like a lover who doesn’t care about boundaries

or that there are other mouths in the world

who might want some sweetness too.

                           *

The years are faded photographs and you can’t

remember who you were or who you are

or who you want to be.

                           *

You woke up to a rainy spring

and the window was wet with dew

like blood or sweat or maybe

just water.

                           *

Eyes heavy, brain slow, you wonder

if this is what it means to be human

or if you’re still dreaming

or if it even matters.

James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. His latest chapbooks are A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023) and Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022). Recent poems are in Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Little Patuxent Review, and The Round. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)