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      July 24, 2017HeirloomJackson Burgess

      Finally it’s middle night, the town’s asleep
      and I can watch my breath hit the porch
      with no fear of friendly small talk from neighbors
      introducing themselves for the umpteenth time.
      My father sings and strums throughout the day—
      lovelorn ballads about winter following spring.
      His voice cracks and twangs, he falls deep
      into his Valley accent only then, when he thinks
      I can’t hear through the door. I truly am
      my father’s son, burying old love notes
      in our overgrown heirloom tomatoes,
      giving the dirt her words, the ink that she watched dry.
      This late at night, he’s due to come down
      in his underwear, use the bathroom, drink
      from the tap, and in that moment we’ll be
      the only ones awake in this single-stoplight town.
      Goodnight Dad. Goodnight son. From my father, I got
      my fingernails, my slouch, my rearview mirror.
      From somewhere I’m not sure of I got these lungs
      full of confetti and a case of somniloquy
      only she could stand. Here in Shenandoah
      where no one but family knows my name,
      I can watch frost creep over the garden and listen
      to my father sleep fitfully upstairs, shaking
      the house with every stir. If he talks in his sleep,
      I can’t hear him through the door.
      One of us will have to die first.

      from #56 - Summer 2017

      Jackson Burgess

      “In college, when I started taking writing seriously, I fell in with a crowd of writers, musicians, graffiti artists, dancers, and derelicts, all of whom loved art so hard it would crack your bones, and most of whom suffered from some sort of mental illness (myself included). It was the first time I’d been in such a community, where depression and medication and therapy were discussed so openly, and as someone with bipolar disorder, it taught me to value open dialogue about those painful topics, rather than to box them up and feel alone. I write to bear witness to experiences and feelings, always from a place of anxiety, and always with the goal of dispelling solipsism in some reader who may have felt the same.”

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