Tilted Reminiscence
I had my arm looped around your shoulder
at Zub’s always thinking of infinity inside
gooey strands of fried mac and cheese bites–
now I’m thirty-four, scared of heart failure.
I stand at my desk at work on a foam pad
with bumps and ridges. Anything to keep
me active, though I read Bruce Lee died
at thirty-two. I don’t know how I did not
know that until now. If ignorance can be
counted in the days I have forgotten, my
respite won’t be remembered. Perhaps the
paper clips that stab memories together
aren’t so horribly misspoken, though I
speak without stopping more than I used to.
The highway through my windshield grime–
at night, when it’s raining– everything is
chance, or I need better glasses, or escape.
I look ahead and forget all that is behind
me, inconsiderate to the rearview lights
who are trying to guide me home.
About the Author: 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 ITERANT, Skipjack Review, and The Indianapolis Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville, Tennessee. (jamescroaljackson.com)
Image: Unsplash, downloaded (https://unsplash.com/photos/car-side-mirror-with-water-droplets-MqYWOOkRzLE) 18. 1. 2025.
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