Abattoir
I work in the slaughterhouse, feed
cows, wash mouths. Commute through
tunnels mourning rush. Risky switching
lanes. Sunlight’s golden mustard frees
caged meat. I have fire inside
me. Rust on my hinges.
City of bridges. I still don’t know
what kind animal I will become.
About the Author: James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet working in film production. His latest chapbook is A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023). Recent poems are in The River, Mangrove Review, and Packingtown Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville, Tennessee. (jamescroaljackson.com)
Image Credit: Arthur Rothstein “Stockyards. Kansas City, Kansas” (1936) Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress
As It Ought To Be 