Bundt Cake!

The recipe I research online
calls for Mountain Dew
(or Mello Yello, if one prefers)
and I’m curious if it becomes
a lemon tea with a reservoir
of sugar in it. What happens
to the bubbles? Do they turn
into a slime? I buy a liter
from IGA, ignite the oven to
a torrid Fahrenheit, hotter than
my usual showers that set off
the second-floor smoke alarm.
Grease and flour in the Bundt
pan, fluted and grooved and
eternally circular– my partner
wonders if I have the expertise
to do this, and I read her the
recipe, which she says is not
typical– the carbonation nor
instant pudding it calls for,
the boxed cake mix plucked
from a million others at the store.
But in a large bowl I combine
everything: the oil, the powder,
the eggs, one at a time, and stir
in the lemon-lime soda.
It has a texture like roof tar
when I tell her I don’t even
enjoy Bundt cake, I just wanted
to do something productive with
my day after being laid off.
She helps me pour the sludge
and bake until I insert a toothpick
into the center. We let it cool.

Milgate Bathroom

When you can’t leave for the forest–
bloomed flower petals on white tile
by the toilet rug. Black comb bleach
cleaner. A tendril reaches from water
glass, vine lights looming. What for
but pale wall? Crystal window. Self-
haircut grass. Small room. Small
ambition. I track my movements.
My hunter is somewhere, hiding.

You Ask What Home Means to Me

Home is a location. Not a house.
Because I live in a home to be near

my people. When I leave, my people
follow me to the next. Because home

is people, not place, though often
I want to live in a home hidden

by trees, where branch shadows
won’t follow into where I live.

James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. He has three chapbooks: Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022), Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021), and The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights, 2017). He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, PA.