Ascension

Grappling with light, wrestling
the angel — Jacob, shirtless, all muscle.
I, in a Diaspora t-shirt, tell him, You
hurt me to my soul. He says, Sorry, but
he doesn’t mean it. And then like Adam,
who back in ’92, drove me high up into
the West Hills of Portland to gaze out over
the pink-towered city, Jacob gives me
a boost up onto his ladder, and we ascend
to look out over the whole wide world
ending.
Unlike Adam, he takes me into
his arms. He says, I meant you no harm.
I tell him, it’s too late for ‘sorry,’ as
all I have is worry for this world. Jacob
puts on a long white dress, attempts to
show some tenderness, gets upset when
I say, You’re the reason we’re in this mess
in the first place. And in a flash the ladder
is gone, one star setting as the others
come on — heaven, too late, beautiful
for reasons I now comprehend.

Stephen Jackson lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest. His poems have most recently appeared or are forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry, Chronotope, Grey Sparrow Journal, International Human Rights Art Festival Publishes, Impossible Archetype, and pacificREVIEW. Please follow him at https://twitter.com/fortyoddcrows