by F.D. Jackson
My husband wants her to hang.
I’m certain he wants the whole
world to hang:
the Latino that he's convinced is
taking his benefits,
the two ladies that live down the street,
the little boy that wears a rainbow tutu,
the teenager wrapped in a keffiyeh,
our neighbor, Diane, who cries over
melting polar ice sheets and glaciers.
All our faces burgundy muddy colored,
eyes bulging, tongues lolling to the side.
I want Christa to eat and sleep well,
to take long walks around the yard,
to smile and laugh, to read and learn.
To pray to the universe, fall to her knees,
grieve for Colleen, grieve for herself
(that baby girl born to alcoholic parents,
raped by her grandmother’s partner).
To write a book, give some of the money
to Colleen’s mother.
To advocate for abused children.
I want Christa to wipe tears from her face,
pull her shoulders back, set her jaw in stone
and walk out of prison a free woman.
But I live in a small southern town with him.
I can’t just say all this aloud, can I?
F. D. Jackson lives in the southeastern U.S. She writes about loss/grief and the restorative and transformative power of nature. When she is not reading or writing, she can be found wandering the Gulf Coast with a cold drink in her hand. F. D.’s works have appeared or are forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, FERAL, Third Wednesday, Wild Roof Journal, Williwaw, Cosmic Daffodil, Soul Poetry, Prose and Arts Magazine, and others.
