Poetry

James Motter photo

By

Eaton Jackson

Another Apology To My Skin

barely audible

the crow-bared apology

for words horded, hidden away by you about my skin,

and it is sworn to again this time, just like the time before

that this would be the last time you will  say aloud; your true feelings about me

about us,

it floats around the room only to burst like bubbles

and you slide down the old, reliable hatch that you and your kind

are provided with   to escape when red-faced

flicks of a paint brush brightens up the ambiance of respectability

your country club five course meal,

Another apology for speaking your innards

about this skin   us

one that we are expected to turn the other cheek to you

one that we are expected to be Christian about

‘…who knows better do the better deed…’

one that my color and I are expected to graciously accept,

another apology

whose pulling threads have left

bruised, thin, compressed lips

the attached cord with the rest of your bile still lodging in your bowels

pulled at

your lips opening a little to release semblance of penitence,

To my skin  you claim again

that you didn’t even recognized your own hate-filled self

as you tumbled blindly down your real feelings  about me   us

I am hearing everything but mostly its bemused curiosity

as I watched floating bubbles filled the room

only to burst.

The Base

The base is

ragged horizontal lines in the sand,

points of reference

to run from one illusion,

to run towards more phantoms

to touch the base again ignoring echoes of

an empty bucket clanging

against the sides of an empty well,

feeling good about feelings bad

about something that took something from us

to touch the base again

red, pulsating venom,

to make another   scoring points

repository of lifting, bleeding, scab

that hadn’t been really sutured

to pull at the raw, jumping nerves

to pull to the brink of seat,

to pull the scab off civility

to have the audience transfixed

an old, three- card- trick:

rabbits jumping out a red baseball cap.

Eaton Jackson

My name is Eaton Jackson and I am a Jamaican, aspiring writer, living in the United States for the past four years. I have been writing from my teenage years. Over the years I have been published in various Jamaican publications. I have also been published in a few USA publications (Shot Glass, NewsVerse, Creative Unleashed, River Poets Journal). Despite the sense sometimes of a despairing sense of anonymity, writing on a blank piece of paper remains an instinctive reaction. So, the dream persists – to one day become a successful, published writer.