OUR NEIGHBORHOOD GIANT EAGLE IS CLOSING
Everything is on sale. Where once was bread
now empty shelves and strangers scanning aisles
for the last shred of good. As it closes you say
you are a little sad, but it was never your favorite
grocery store. We have been fighting a lot lately–
from our favorite tv shows, to what type of dog
we might get, to which sugary cereals to pile
into our cart with all these cheap products
that don’t fit together: taco shells, toothpaste,
store-brand mac and cheese– would you believe
a month ago this place was stocked with everything
we need? We try to talk about marriage,
our deepwater eyes zooming through the dark
into a future where we guess what will become
of this building while seeking sustenance we know
other shoppers already bought the last of.
We need a sign to give us clearance to move on–
then the cashier, ringing each item slowly
as if savoring each would save his job, repeats
thirty percent off, thirty percent off, thirty percent off,
and a little more every day.
What you do say is prayer don’t burn and die
when passing through the atmosphere.
Yet, somehow, meteoroids do–
though sand-sized, they have bodies
like bullets, sometimes
copper, sometimes steel.
We’re talkin heaven’s ammo,
a hundred tons pounding Earth each day
unnoticed. Down here, you claim
able to speak with some cosmic, faraway force
you’ve never met while keeping closed your mouth.
You claim telepathy, so this telepathic ability
how your thoughts move healing this world
of the aftermath of bodies. Tell me:
how does God respond?
And you say God,
God protects the faithful.
So, God’s His own meteorites
cratering His house, hallelujah.
James Croal Jackson is the author of The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017). His poetry has appeared in FLAPPERHOUSE, Yes Poetry, Serving House Journal, and elsewhere. He edits The Mantle, a poetry journal. Find him in Columbus, Ohio or at jimjakk.com.