F. D. Jackson

Blue Hour

My Father steps off the grassy bank, knee deep
into the chartreuse colored muck and mire,
wearing a wife-beater t-shirt and checkered boxer shorts.
I sit atop his shoulders, my long, tanned legs drape his chest.
I know, without a doubt, the cold chunky mud that rises
past his knees is life threatening quicksand;
I’ve seen many heroes succumb to this gritty ooze
in late night movies.
It’s not like riding my pony; I can’t feel the sinewy muscles
of my Father’s back that signal a change in his pace,
tell me to grip the sides of his barrel chest with freckled knees.
No snaffle bit to direct my Father’s attention straight ahead
or poke the roof of his mouth, asking him to slow down.
Instead, he twists his tall lean body from side to side
as he plows through the sludge, looking back toward the bank,
talking with my Mother, wading deeper toward the skinny line
of pink and orange horizon–the Blue Hour–
where anything could happen! No sun, no stars,
no black vault of night, only azure light above and below.
Perseus might rise from the mud with Medusa’s head in his hands,
eyes like black diamonds, or a chimera with wings,
whipping its snake tail in the air.
I wrap my arms around his face, lay my feverish cheek
against the crown of his head.
God reaches back, pats my head with a veiny, calloused hand;
his long fingers gently tousle my hair.
I open my eyes to see that we have made it
to the mossy green of the pond.
The geese honk and skid across the glassy expanse of water.
The deep, sad hoot of the great horned owl slows my breathing.
And my Father laughs, as he sinks below the surface,
leaving me to tread peacefully, as I search the evening sky for Venus.

F.D. Jackson lives in south Mississippi, along with her husband and sundry furry family members. When she is not writing or reading, she can be found wandering the Gulf Coast with a cold drink in her hand. F.D.’s works have appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic, Rat’s Ass Review, Willawaw, Third Wednesday, FERAL, and others.