Jacksons Everywhere by Darby Lyons

Jacksons Everywhere

As we left Tuscaloosa in ‘68,
heading north to the place
we called home in Ohio,
before Dad left for the war,
my brother and I sprawled
loose in the station wagon
in deep night so we’d sleep,
I heard Johnny Cash’s voice
carried through the air to us
by some high-power
AM station. When he sang,
I’m going to Jackson,
I wondered if we’d see him
and June, if maybe they were
family I’d yet to meet.

Years later, I learned
their Jackson was not mine,
though my people sounded
like them, and my daddy
played guitar, sang old songs
and made my mama laugh.
Our hills weren’t their hills,
and their Jackson was damn near flat,
while ours rolled along
the edge of Appalachia,
a county seat in iron country,
even then starting to fade.
As it turns out, I’ve learned,
there are Jacksons everywhere.

Before we rolled into town,
we cheered the sight
of the red apple water tower
hovering over the town.
It hovers there still,
painted and repainted
over the years, shining there
like it marks a city
a star may dream of
running to, not a town
children dream of leaving.

​

Darby Lyons lives in Cincinnati and recently retired from teaching English and creative writing in Wyoming, Ohio. She received her MFA from the Sewanee School of Letters, and her work has appeared in Mud Season Review, 8 Poems, SWWIM Every Day, and other publications. She reads poetry submissions for The Cincinnati Review. 

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