by James Croal Jackson
Mocktails were the catalyst, but we drank
greyhound cocktails to tales of your great-
grandfather, the activist who jumped
in front of a bus at rush hour–
we didn’t rush the first night, long
after Oddfellows, when I came
home into your arms the first time,
the last time this would ever be strange.
![](https://nycbigcitylit.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/James-Croal-Jackson-1.jpg)
James Croal Jackson works in film production. His most recent chapbooks are Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022) and Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021). Recent poems are in Stirring, SAND, and Vilas Avenue. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)