Welcome to May, everyone!
Though you are reading this from us, the Spring ’19 editors, you are reading it in absentia. Our time, though wonderful, is up in the Hedge Apple chair. As it says in the post pinned to the top of the site, we are closed for submissions until the next editors start their own journey.
Just because the Hedge Apple is, for now, untended doesn’t mean, however, we can’t bring you as many wonderful submissions as possible.
Here are a couple of poems from James Croal Jackson–the first is perhaps fitting for the wistfulness we feel over our, for the moment, empty chairs.
These also deserve, as any poem does, in every way to stand in their own light–to share their unique colors with the world.
Following a trip to Vegas
in August heat, my skin itched
for good. I ended us.
No, you said. We were a done deal.
You would not leave my apartment.
We drank juice and vodka
to forget we had ever
talked about forever.
We rode a Lyft to BW3
at 2 P.M. on a Thursday
because a cheap happy hour
is a kind of grim reminder.
We ordered boneless wings at the bar.
The bartender told us ignition is cheap.
Beer stripped us to tender meat
and there was no more steam.
Your skirt mushroomed in the breeze
when you stepped outside to smoke.
We had locked ourselves out when
the clouds produced rain, not keys.
in the storm
from your mom
in our chests
from our mouths
how it floats
to warn us
forests need not
James Croal Jackson swore he’d never work in film again after leaving L.A. He has a chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), and poems in Columbia Journal, Rattle, and Hobart. He edits The Mantle. Currently, he works in the film industry in Pittsburgh, PA. jimjakk.com