Poetry by F.D. Jackson

      Dillan K CC




Dovetailed

I never wanted to be like my mother.
Hiding in the closet, watching her pull, 
plead with stockings to snap to her garter belt,
to smooth out red and blue spider veins 
roaming the length of her legs.
The nightly ritual of removing false teeth
that no one knew she wore--
too many babies, no prenatal vitamins,
teeth crumbled away at such a tender age.

Helen Reddy belted “I Am Woman;”
Mother cooked, cleaned, and cried,
standing alone, looking out the kitchen window
at the rabbits eating her orange day lilies.

I hated her lazy Southern drawl, the way she said,
“I’m boilin’ roast n’ears,” instead of roasting ears;
I was sixteen before realizing “ice” potatoes
were “Irish” potatoes.

Browsing through the top drawer
of the old rounded edge waterfall chest,
pouring over journals, jewelry, and photos,
the scent of vanilla satchets permeate.
My mother was envious of her cousin Mary Dale’s
curly auburn hair and new red coat.
I was envious of my friend Lee Ann’s
collection of Barbie shoes; I slipped 
two pairs in my dress pocket.
Both of us liked to eat cold fried chicken
and slurp cling peaches late at night
when everyone else was in bed.
We both needed male attention--
she met our neighbor, James, every morning
in the woods behind our house, and
I fell in love with Doug in the ninth grade
because he said my pale blue eyes were beautiful.

I’m not a “chip off the old block” or an “apple”
that “never falls too far from the tree,” 
but I am inextricably connected to my mother;
an unsolvable maze of blood, bone, and feeling.
Dovetailed--every joint, tenon and mortise 
carefully hammered into being.

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F.D. lives in the southeastern U.S., along with her husband and sundry furry family members. She writes about loss/grief and the restorative and transformative power of nature. Her works have appeared in Feral, Willawaw, Wild Roof Journal, Rat's Ass Review, Third Wednesday, Eunoia Review and others.