Didi Jackson

Oct 24, 2024 | bombmagazine.org | Rashed Aqrabawi |Didi Jackson

Matthew Rohrer’s poems are woven things. Things made up of the life of dreams and waking life; life on earth and death on earth; the self among various other selves. His new collection, Army of Giants (Wave Books, 2024), weaves together short- and long-form poetry that boasts an almost psychedelic dailiness, a humorous sadness, and a wonder about the world and the world beyond the world.

Sep 2, 2024 | newyorker.com | Didi Jackson

By now the fields are overgrown,most ironweed and parsnip have turned black,even the closed cabinet doors of milkweed podshave burst open, spilling their shucked silkinto the day. I wear a coatand remember August, those nightsfilled with moths that like fireworksput on a show at our window,circled the lights like monks in meditation. At every new cycle, I miss the onenow gone. I am never happy and haveno excuse not to love the dyingseason, the growing season, the season of sleep.

Aug 27, 2024 | chapter16.org | Didi Jackson

A graveyard marks the trailheadwe take almost daily in all weather. More often than not, on one of the gravesa bouquet of fresh flowers appears, chrysanthemumsI think, a stranger’s morning prayers made manifest. Some of these carved stones, large like granite ships,are over a hundred years old. We moveup the trail as easy as rain. Once I fellin love with the hills and crests of anotherrange of mountains. In those peaks I lostmy late husband’s mind, soon to follow was his bodyby his own hand.

Aug 25, 2024 | theatlantic.com | Didi Jackson

PoemFor SundayPhotography by Will MatsudaAugust 25, 2024, 6 AM ET In the end, I made myself live. I am the farthest north of my life,and I know I’m supposed to love this world though I could shut the doorand pull the drapes until they overlap like two palms in prayer. But the tree lichens are shifting from green to red and I miss the summer’s scentof lilacs and the bark pockets of trees that fill with the nests of chickadees. I understand the longing for monastic life.

Jun 14, 2024 | bombmagazine.org | Didi Jackson |Dawn Martin

CHILDHOOD, NO. 2 Wasn’t the blue just endless, the sky I mean, that carried a band of jays to the lake’s edge, their clucks and whirs curling back upon their bodies like infinity itself, echoing off the water that sat as still as hammered steel as the sun, like a head without a neck, spun across the screen of sky—a giant orange claiming its inheritance of the firmament.