For David Jackson

Tomorrow could be a day 
of cyanide chambers, starved 
sky. Slings and arrows, floods 

and fire, smallpox blanket.
People know what they do 
but never when it’s done 

to them what to do in turn.
I just want to be the rain 
in your well, the space

between your knuckles 
cracked before a day’s 
labor, the notes you whistle

when there’s no coffins 
in your head, only screws.
People know what they do 

when they try to hurt,
squeeze this green part 
of the bruise. Tell me

your disease and I’ll 
tell you mine. I bought
this evil eye from a Paki

healer called Fakir, blessed
with holy waters 
from a river in Kashmir,

but you have to believe.
That’s what makes 
all the difference,

what you do in turn
before the night’s 
dark tomorrow,  
the secret distances,
the packed cemetery mound. 

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Lucas Khan is a BIPOC writer currently working on his MFA at Georgia State University and teaches Intro to Creative Writing. He writes about the human condition and is battling Multiple Sclerosis. He believes poetry is meant to connect all types of diverse people around the world. He writes mostly about chronic illness and addiction. Previous publications include Penumbra, Table Review, Naugatuck River Review, Slipstream Press and more.