by Stephen Jackson

Lance was born in the pale, a drift of seed
&&&&could pass through that flesh, a twist of ivy’d
&&&&&&&&&be a gift to bones so frail. Veins blued out

in the crux of an elbow, spine puzzle-pieced
&&&&from neck to tailbone, sun’d catch his skin
&&&&&&&&the way a ship’s sail catches wind. And that

dangle of flesh so white became a mountain
&&&&&on the moon each night he’d stretch himself
&&&&&&&&&out on me, pale blue eyes in a state of ennui,

he’d mutter prayers in tongues to calm me,
 &&&& lull me, keep my fears at bay, injecting me
&&&&&&&  with rivers riddled with light. And always

in that ghostly voice, I’m coming, he’d say
&&&&&&&&  — while I only ever felt him drifting away.
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Stephen Jackson

Stephen Jackson lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest, where he divides his time between Washington and Oregon. His poems have most recently appeared or are forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry, HelloHorror and Impossible Archetype.

Artist: Natasha Chomko