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Elsewhere






Elsewhere







in darkness we wade

into this shimmering orb

a crystalized common



ground beneath the palm trees

in this desert spanning the time

since I saw you last I lived in my car



when you went on vacation

and handed me the key to your home

for the week wood panels covering



your windows blocking light

I remember thinking I’ve lost

my sense of place like



sleeping through a daydream

staring at the ceiling

from your pond-sized bed



I could not wait

to leave the key

in the top drawer



of your dresser and

never see you again

because I didn’t



want to tell you

your home was more

like a prison at least when living



in a car there’s the

illusion of motion

with nowhere else to go



I find myself with you

now in this outdoor pool

swimming on its own







James Croal Jackson






James Croal Jackson (he/him) has a chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), and poems in Pacifica, Reservoir, and Rattle. He edits The Mantle (themantlepoetry.com). Currently, he works in the film industry in Pittsburgh, PA. (jimjakk.com)

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