FEATURE: The Poetry of Jennifer Ruth Jackson
Woodland of the Fair Folk
We were misled, through woods where boughs
of pine ate starlight from the ground. Our compass,
a lone earring on some boulder, slipped our pack a mile
past the snake-tongue trail. We pitched our tent near bark
and brush, cleared away spots for sleeping bags left
in night's porterage. We couldn't find the glimmer girl,
the one with soft voice and shimmer-skin like tangible sound
waves. We couldn't say goodbye when she melted into shadow
and stayed, our GPS scrambled as though confused by her parting.
—
Charmed
I jumped into the churning sea
wearing a Cheshire grin
and little else... a reverse birth.
Cold claimed me whole (headfirst)
feet feeling a million miles apart.
Your voice traveled far below
the surface, soothing yet insistent—
a bandage for my bloody soul,
sopping up diluted plasma
like a bread bowl. Bubbles
expelled from my lips carried
your name. Where did I
meet you, siren? I couldn't recall
beyond the ache of my thrashing,
frozen limbs. I looked for you
with vision dark, echolocation
my small flame of salvation.
I swore I touched your bare back,
skin a lick of mercury as you opened
your shark-toothed maw. I wondered
how you sang with such unbridled passion
when your eyes went to white orbs
like you were in thrall to the feast. And I
held a plump, green apple in my mouth.
—
Girls’ Night Out
Let's paint the town with blood
from our acrylic, clicking talons
as steam rises from beaks holding
flesh like a python-turned-lover.
Let's find the weekend dancing
around us as necks snap like beans
fresh from grandmother's garden.
Let's fly towards home, a little drunk
on the heels of an excellent hunt,
adrenaline pumping our wings parallel
to heaven like carried, carrion souls.
—
Red like the Curtains
Wear the glass shoes for she awaits.
You know each step of the rescue
recital: Pivot left, pirouette right.
Tie straps laced halfway to your knee
topped off in bows. Stuff tissues
by your toes for an absorbent cushion.
Smile harder when you hear cracks
over the symphony’s furious trumpets.
Wince as the shards dig like a dog
through your heels. Bow and sob
as she cleans the curtained stage
with her tongue. Be gone before
she realizes she's still not satisfied.
—
ALONE
we Watch patiEntly
KeepiNg clOse as Wind
yawning against YOUr skin
Anxiety cReeping down your spinE
Attracts us Like ghOsts Never quietEd
—
Poet’s Statement and Bio
Horror is one of my favorite genres. It saturates an already-existing darkness in the world and leaves a deeper black, yet exposes truths within us. Many of horror's heroes aren't soldiers or superhumans—they're just us, in crappy situations, fighting like hell against steep odds. It reminds me that there are still ways to push back or that time for a sequel exists, even if evil wins by the final page.
Most of my horror poetry and stories start from something mundane. Hearing a man call two women harpies as they stumbled out of a bar while trying to ignore him was the inspiration for “Girls’ Night Out." My unwavering ability to get lost even a few blocks from home sparked the idea for “Woodland of the Fair Folk." Horror, and speculative fiction in general, can take the question writers are told to ask ourselves (“What if?") and erase the boundaries of reality on even the tiniest slice of life.
Jennifer Ruth Jackson is a poet and fictionist with cerebral palsy. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Vinyl Poetry and Prose, Algebra of Owls, Apex Magazine, and more. Domestic Bodies, her literary poetry collection, came out in 2023 from Querencia Press. When she isn't writing (or engaging in activism), you can find her crafting a variety of things or playing video games with her husband. Follow her on Bluesky or Instagram: @jenruthjackson.