Remembering Lance

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, Im coming, he’d say
&&&&&&&&  — while I only ever felt him drifting away.


Artist: Natasha Chomko

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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s