Two poems by Ronnie Jackson

Weight, Loss

A man rides a tandem bicycle

alone. Phantom legs picking

up slack in the back. We are

surrounded by ghosts of our

making perhaps. Perhaps we

are howling only to the great


A woman wakes in the dark

cradle of elm-shade midday.

Around her the sun rains down

violently. She picks up where

she left off. A monologue of

updates to a grave marker of


I tend to believe in the wilderness

of this life. That longing and love

have index. A mass measurable.

A weight to the Bougainvillea

that draws blood beautifully. And

when we leave we are no longer



In this one he doesn’t drag

his hands down the hallway

wall of the hotel feeling

the insides of every room.