Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue Two

Marcus Jackson

Crack Cook

On a triple-beam Shaun stole from our school's chemistry room, soda-cooked cocaine weighed to exact grams. His mama waitressing at a twilight diner, and his toddler sister drowsing in her crib, he chopped product on the coffee table, cautious never to waste a grain. How wholly he loved each of the venture's ingredients: his phone's endless trembling; feeding folks who woke to tongues dry as baked slate, to need pleading nucleus-deep; the warmth of bill upon folded bill; cops skulking in civilian sedans; the stupendous spoons of street lights ladling gleam on every ivory crumb.