mauve, sprigs of oleander—
ceilings shedding water
stains in shapes of crooked
eyes—my jaws lock in mid-sentence
and hands cover your last white
leg with dirt
i name it
a lighthouse: a jar full of salt:
a longitude line undone
summer barely opening her dress
but the shutters singing
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Contributor Notes
Raven Jackson is a native of Tennessee and a Cave Canem fellow. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in CALYX, Phantom Limb, PANK, and elsewhere. She attends New York University’s Graduate Film Program.
