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POETRY

by Jackson Burgess

He’s dead & we’re still brushing our teeth. He’s dead &
we’re still Zelleing our landlords. In a St. George
my brother will never see again, Latter-day Saints are checking
their swamp coolers, watering at dusk. A hateful man dons shades
as he pulls into the institution’s lot. He makes my brother’s
students drop & give him fifty because men don’t cry, because
it is what it is. While mothers inspect drip lines,
kids chase chuckwallas over asphalt, shrieking.
Snowbirds pull immaculate RVs into parking slots &
HVAC technicians pull vapes. Who will water the wildflowers
under these pitiless blue skies? Who will teach my children
how to dance? In the shadow of the Red Cliffs Temple,
a groundsman sweeps up rocks piled as a headstone
before scattering them back amongst the rest.

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POETRY

by Jackson Burgess

You’re waist-deep in the silo & the corn continues pouring.
Your hands & feet are cord-bound & your clothes
are wet with gas. You’re in the magician’s sword box &
no one told you when to dodge. You’re driving through
the hurricane & all the windows crack. Mid-
AP Spanish oral, the wetness spreads down-leg.
Flies in your mouth, worms in your shoes. You’re
drowning in syrup. Drowning in paint. Drowning in buckets
of Remeron & Wellbutrin & you can’t swallow enough.
When my sister-in-law confides that my niece’s brain
may look like her late father’s, I know she means it looks
like mine. & in the corner of our childhood bedroom,
my twin bed next to his, I see a darkness lurching.
It sings falsetto. It watches us grow.

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POETRY

by Jackson Burgess

My sister prowls the Rexburg listings seeking
yet more creatures to rehome. Twin One hits

Jung & Dostoevsky, Twin Two puts charcoal
to the page. I learn fancy terms like anhedonia

& maladaptation & clone yellow & blue tomatoes.
My brother sits trapped in cardboard, waiting

to be spread. A pregnant darkness creeps
across the creosote, licking cacti, painting doors.

Do you see it? Heard it scratching at the panes?
Zion burns & Kolob weeps—the Firmament is loose.

My student tells me when he finally relented & let
the doctors see him, they tied him to a gurney

for three days & nights & when he rose, security
said, Sit back down, hand reaching for a Glock.