NEW! Poem by Jack Christian

Jack Christian

A Memory

The planned forest is no way out, 
only options,

and still a little nonsense to dimple the order,
and the trail that takes us there

by a copse of cars
as if once they formed a headlight circle 

and are now a rusty installation 
or more simply some patterned junk

that helps predict the seasons,

the ridge above like a crooked back, 
before the campsite on the creek’s little finger

with Meagan, Emma and Phil in warmest March, 
as if we played a psychic role in the heat, 

my own hand-me-down Buick full with wilderness gadgets. 

It really was just that once—
on a rock in the river treading happily

against looming departure,
which could all be comparison to something else

but is just the memory, untimed,
the fire, the coals, and afterward—

a bit of gut pushing up through its muscle wall. 

Is that a way to say it?