Anna Jackson

Indeed I can quite freely step inside

This city is strange to me. The streets
that rise and fall remind me
I was in love once —
but not with whom.
I do not have a phone number
or address but stop
and scan each letterbox
for a name — Jackson
rings a bell.
Inside the smell
of gas is overpowering —
if I find a family here to love
I’ll be finding a tomb.
But all I find are empty rooms.

Author’s Note


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