AUGUST POETRY

EPITHET

By

De Jackson

I don’t recall the day my name be

-came a swearword on your forked

tongue; perhaps always there, wait

-ing to be spit into the dying embers

of us. Consonant, vowel, disembowel

-ed and left for dead, the dread of the

keys in the lock or the knock that meant

you misplaced them again, the linger

-ing scent of sin on your skin and the

way your burning eyes no longer see me,

the yearning in my bones for something

more, the way the door feels so very far

away. The day I cracked this tilted cage,

crumbled this tired rage, fumbled, fled

and found what had been waiting all

along: These syllables of me, a song.

PACKING BLACK

By

De Jackson

she wishes

she were packing

blues and greens

the colors of the sky and sea

in places they never got to be.

but she is not.

she wants

to be carelessly tossing in

yellow sundresses

and floppy pink hats, flats

and the silken turquoise scarf.

but she is not.

she walks

to the bed

lays somber clothes

inside a half-empty suitcase

and closes the lid on his life.

she waits

for the tears

and the taxi

to arrive

because she is living, breathing, leaving

and he is not.