by James Croal Jackson
I see the opening then can’t breathe when placing down the block– one wrong move and I’m living in the car again. Cheaper rent. The simpler things– brick house, white dress– were romantic once but my mouth is full of blood, teeth falling out, my stomach yellow-splotched (and not from the sun). The rocks in my shoes, holes in my wallet, ripped nets my lovers fall through (rely on me? They know I grind my teeth in sleep). How summery it was to think I could make the next job work, mountains of manila folders perpetually stacking, tumbling– the dim room’s exit blocked from collapse.