Amy Jackson

Writings 2011



Missing GA License Plates


Oh baby take the pain
From me
Take another hit
Off whatever you’re on
Take me there
Knock me down to

Where I don’t feel it
No more

Dixie Crystals
The truck passed us
The AM radio played
Radar Love just then
We laughed
I looked out the window
At a big wash of Kudzu
Eating a forest
reminding me
We stopped
Laughing then

Gray rain
Whatever you’re on

Green green vines full
Of water, of rain
Whatever you’re on
Hit me again
Roll the dice
I learned not to play
No, girl, I’m not playin
Boy, I’m not playin with you

The Temple of Doom
Twenty four hours
Twenty four cents
Yeah, there was a time
It was playin
Downtown for that

Now you wanna know the truth
Hear lemme tell you some of it:

the Winters never quite got cold enough
to hide the stink of your rust
the stench of your dead
to cover the filth of your
never ending civil wars
the white hot bitch of your pride
your temptations?
the statute of your limitations?
covering the shames of your young

now hush child
let the vines cover up the stones
where you done buried your lies
your dead loves
if you can call them that now

what you gonna call them now
you done did that

to your mourning doves?


Amy Jackson


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Autumn Miracle, Loss

Autumn falls
Like so many diverse handprints on the sidewalk
Wild hands, tiger hands, leopard spotted, lipstick red, flame yellow
Leaving gray shadows when the wind blows them wayward on
Hands that have been reaching for the Sun since curling out
From the dry brown of sticks of living wood bark since Spring
Buds sleeping dry inside despite Winter’s spite
So many little bright miracles
They grew toward the light
And out like so many little lanterns, fires, alight, they blew off the trees
Beneath our feet and stuck there in the rain

Leaves, like hands there
Trees turning colors like apples Macintosh
For a man now gone who dreamed in colors
Now gone in a flash but whose hands live on
Beneath our fingers, hands
On the keys
Like lightning
Like so many
A man
Our hands


Amy Jackson



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