Jackson Trice is a poet and fiction writer living in Charleston, SC, USA. She was published in Scholastic’s Best Teen Writing in 2013 and 2014 and recognized by the YoungArts Foundation for her poetry in 2014. Ten years later, she is finally singing again.
SWEET TALK FOR SOPHOMORE YEAR
We were walking through
a corn maze that Halloween
all the unpicked pumpkins
went soft on their vines early.
You were explaining how
his freshman body felt pressed
up next to yours. Remember how
the cornstalks wilted
into themselves? The cold air
snapped the world shut,
fingers numb. Lemon pink
sky taut above us, your breath
visible: a smoking engine:
a fired gun. You were talking
about his nervousness. How it
caused a lack in rhythm. To
which I said, Whatever. That’s
disgusting. Whatever. It’s
freezing out here. Whatever.
The sky’s so pink, how can
it even stand itself? I think of this
in place of that conversation:
In first grade, the neighbor’s
dog tried to eat all the meat
off your face. No time between
your body hitting the grass, or
your nose to his yellow
stained teeth, Iams breath.
That all happened before
we met, so I can only know
the scar as a scar. What I know
firsthand is the look
on your face upon hearing
your older sister’s Honda
humming in the driveway,
home early for Christmas
break. I know the bruises,
where you put perfume
as a get well card to your
rib cage, elbows, wrists
I know my own malicious,
retrospective protection that
creates this obsession.
I know I’ve become
the bloodhound.
I once dreamt a girl was
stripping right in front of me
but she didn’t stop
once all the skin was
showing & she didn’t stop
when I asked her to. She
didn’t stop until there was
nothing left but bone. Lately,
I’ve found pieces of your
skeleton in every corner I’ve
been. Can’t decide which
part I’m more afraid of:
The thought of his face
overlapping mine like double
exposure, or that your
bruised body’s the maze
I’ll spend my whole
life walking in.
LOVESONG 3
(for Kirby)
Your martini sits between us at this bar we sort of like,
olives languishing at the bottom of the glass
because you don’t like olives,
call them cursed grapes.
I’m looking at your hands shaping
the air as you go on about twice-
fermented wine. If it’s not champagne,
& it’s bubbly? Throw. It. Out!
& time, it feels just like Robert Hass said
it would in July. (Go on,
revise. Tell me
this line’s too esoteric
& I will tell you not to think of this
as a poem but a boomerang picture
meant for only you.)
Hands ride the invisible wave of conversation.
Drunk, at this bar we sort of love, I believe
this is the rhythm of us. At sixteen, we passed this bar
one hundred times & said nothing of it.
Go figure. At sixteen, we thought
rape jokes were funny. At sixteen,
we thought we’d be married by now.
To other people, of course.
Of course.
We’re 21 & embarrassing & the world
is as wide as we’ve made it. Tonight it’s as wide
as your arms stretched out. I’m going, At what age
will I not think twice about throwing out
a full bottle of wine? But you’re
not listening. On to the next thing:
singing a Sufjan song
& I listen
because you never sing.
I’m always the one singing
but lately you’ve been surprising me. The martini,
for instance. The olives at the bottom
of the glass. & I’m going, Hand me one
why don’t you? & you jab the air
with the sharp end of the kabob, almost
prick my finger, as if to say:
This is all you get.
As if to say,
It’d be cruel to ask for anything more.
TIME, AS A SYMPTOM
I believe it began with the splinter.
Searching for the light switch one night
I ran my hand across the basement wall.
The wood burrowed so deep down within
the skin of my right index finger that not even
the father who lived upstairs, not even he,
with his sleeves rolled up, with his tongue
between his teeth, exerting all his raw good dad
energy could tease it out.
Six days I waited
for the wood to free itself. Then I went
to the doctor, who drenched the wound in iodine
the color of gravy & went digging
with tweezers twisting metal into nerve.
I believe it was then that I was first
sparked with unwelcome Knowing.
For an instant, it all got so absurd.
Time played out on my finger. All
missed rhythms & mistakes,
not just the ones I’d make.
I swam out & into some uncanny ocean.
I swam farther than my body would allow.
A riptide took hold & I knew how the next moment,
hour, year would unfold. I knew it, all.
But Knowing’s no promise.
Knowing doesn’t make it any easier, I’ve learned.
Then the doctor sewed & bandaged the
skin & revelations back in, but I was no
longer blind.