Issue > Poetry
Rob Jackson

Rob Jackson

Rob Jackson has recent poems in Southwest Review, Cold Mountain Review, Exposition Review, Boston Literary Magazine, The Lyric, Light, and Measure and two books of children's poetry: Animal Mischief and Weekend Mischief (Boyds Mills Press). He chairs Stanford's Earth System Science Department and the Global Carbon Project.

Reaching for the Phone


When you'd gone, I couldn't unwrap grief
with the wreaths and presents,
like opening the panes
of the hand-drawn Advent calendar early.
On the twelfth day the ornaments came down,
each glass bird shrouded in tissue,
the lights a bundled tangle.

At Epiphany, we burned trees at dusk
in a circle of hands, blaze to ashes.
I touched the glowing embers
of my phone, then darkened them, undialed,
the receiving line dead.  
Cold wedged in
like a box sealed for the last time.

On the Cusp of Berries

When enough time has passed
that the snow
is remembered only as footprints
in a freshly covered field,
when the split logs have melted away,
leaving imprints in the moist ground,
when the carpenter
and blueberry bees have returned,
kissing the redbud petals "Good morning,"
so have you.

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Tony Hoagland

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Alex Miller

Alex Miller
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Chard DeNiord

Chard DeNiord
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