Mark Jackley

LATER ON OUR WEDDING NIGHT,
TWO SILENCES IN THE HOUSE

Like a Shaker bowl
the house contains the silence
of belief, and
like a Navajo basket
containing none of our business
it is keeping quiet,
deathly still, in fact,
about God's plans.



MARKS ON THE FLOOR OF THE RURITAN CLUB

What Indiana Jones will find these hieroglyphics of
cowboy boots shuffling
to Conway and Loretta?

What British Museum will speak for
the nervous man who stammered,
"Jen, care to dance?" What cold glass

will encase the way she turned
her bare shoulder and,
without breaking stride, pretended not to hear?



FOR A MISTRESS

Snow. I drift
to the summer we met
and how we learned
to our delight
both liked doing nothing at all.
Staring at motel walls.
Twiddling thumbs, electric
bare toes too.

Under-achievers, sigh
by sigh we conquered the world.



MILK AND EGGS

Our vows are dead. In their place,
keep it small-scale.
Use simple declarative sentences
to tell me real things.
Plain words, too.
Like "milk and eggs." Say,
"We're low on milk and eggs,
I'll be home soon."



OLD MAN AT A RED LIGHT

Jaw set, arm locked,
he grips the wheel, knuckles thrust
as if a superhero battling
to the end. Soon,
he'll rocket through the clouds and land
in his own backyard,
sheet for a cape as Mother
gently calls him home.

—All poems from Every Green Word, Finishing Line Press, 2012

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Mark Jackley is the author of four chapbooks and the full-length collection, There Will Be Silence While You Wait. He has been nominated for Best of the Web and lives in Sterling, Virginia.