James Croal Jackson

Mia Khalifa

Life imitates art in the way
memory imitates life– your face

reminds me of my last swollen
laughter held. Sometimes

there is no comparison– oh, we'll rise
from geysers with sulfur still

in our fabrics– loose, blue threads
hanging at the maw.

We disassociate and wish
to converge into stars

on a single strand of light–
I remember that copper smell

of a new roll of pennies,
when fifty cents meant more than

being half of something
not actually quantifiable at all.

Public Urination

I manifest prayer
into the unspoken covenant of suburbia,

the gravel pockmarked by drought,
by time, trickling time. . .

the desert calls its rare waters oasis– so,
purge the monstrous depths of your chosen gorge,

knives outwardly aimed
at some balloon's held breath–

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