When you eye me, it's my immediate chore to disregard the majority of creation with the same essentialness of someone looking against the oncoming traffic to check for the late bus they must board. The face of my friend 20 years ago looked with an earned liberation into the entryway of a winter night while a haul of plundered Percocet swabbed the trillions of walls within his body. I was such a poorly traveled, young grunt I gawked at any beach scene on TV. At the community pool, we snuck through the far-end slash in the chain-link and splashed fiercely wearing cutoff jeans. The first full suit I wore was a gem selected at Value City--my pregnant homecoming date instructed me of the garment's eminence while we stared in the dressing-room mirror. Have you, onlooker, listener whom I can't see, ever dressed a child in the hour of morning when your life's most questionable residuals do to your brain what the knuckles of a sculpture dream of doing to a city hall's fastidious glass?
Marcus Jackson’s most recent book is Pardon My Heart (Northwestern Press/Triquarterly Books, 2018). He teaches in the MFA programs at Ohio State and Queens University of Charlotte. He lives in Columbus, Ohio.