A Room Not Her Own
by Beverly Jackson
The room gathers around me—photos, feathers, neti pot, bong, everywhere chapbooks.
On TV, a refugee lies face down on an American street. Two others died, pursued by ICE. Gather them to me. I want to fill this room. I want to lick the blue of their faces.
I want to kiss the families of those victims until every one of them is so drunk with my love, they smile.
Here’s a roll of quarters. Here’s a pencil from Disneyland. I do not have a son. Or a daughter. The ghost of my almost floats in some sewer. The ghost of my father hides in a piece of a B17.
A jumble of books, shoes, papers, dog toys, untended house plants. Sunlight bleeds through dirty windows. What made this room crazy? I vaguely remember some order in the world before virgins waited in the hereafter.
The virgins at the Academy of Holy Names used to slouch in the school bathroom, sneaking cigarettes, talking smut in low voices so the nuns couldn’t hear. Come right in, they used to say. They would scare me away with taunts of “Kiss me, kiss me.”
In this room, now, in this world, today, I wish I had.
BBeverly Jackson is a poet, writer and painter who works out of Las Cruces, New Mexico. Her poems, flash and short stories have appeared in over 100 online and in print journals. Her 2-volume memoir “Loose Fish”, recounting a turbulent and eccentric life, is available on Amazon. She was the founder and Editor in Chief of the former literary press (Lit Pot Press), ezine, and print anthologies, (Ink pot.)/ For the past 10 years, she has focused on fine art, and is exhibited at Mesilla Valley Fine Arts gallery, a 30-artist co-op. Her art website is at https://beverlyjacksonart.com
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What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “A Room Not Her Own”? The title of A” Room Not Her Own is”, of course, a nod to Virginia Wolff. This is a very personal piece rooted in the metaphor of the “room “representing the life of a woman artist, and in my case, a solitary artist without intimate connections to what I perceive as “the real world.” At the age of eighty-eight, I have explored life extensively without immersion. The banal and horrific images that surround my “room” are but ghosts of reality. My heart is flooded with love and regret, the only outlet for which is art. In return I receive undeserved joy.
Check out the write-up of the journal in The Writer.
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Submissions
Poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction/prose poetry submissions are now closed. The reading period for standard submissions opens again September 15, 2025. Submit here.
Upcoming
10/12 • Kathy Fish
10/19 • Katherine Garrison
10/26 • Beverly Jackson
11/02 • Robert Scotellaro
11/09 • T.L. Sherwood
11/16 • Susan Buchler
11/23 • Chelsea Stickle
11/30 • TBD
12/07 • TBD
12/14 • TBD
12/21 • TBD
12/28 • TBD