Many Suns Will Rise / Mark Jackley


Product Description

Many Suns Will Rise

poems by

Mark Jackley

ISBN: 978-1-59948-927-8, ~64 pages, $14 (+ shipping)

Projected Release Date: July/August, 2022

An Advance Sale Discount price of $8.50 (+ shipping) is available HERE prior to press time. This price is not available anywhere else or by check. The check price is $12.50/book (which includes shipping) and should be sent to: Main Street Rag, PO BOX 690100, Charlotte, NC 28227-7001. 

PLEASE NOTE: Ordering in advance of the release date entitles the buyer to a discount. It does not mean the book will ship before the date posted above and the price only applies to copies ordered through the Main Street Rag Online Bookstore.

About The Author

Mark Jackley lives in Purcellville, Virginia, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. His poems have appeared in Fifth Wednesday, Sugar House Review, Natural Bridge, The Cape Rock, Talking River, The Main Street Rag, and other journals. His previous books include Cracks and Slats (Amsterdam Press), Every Green Word (Finishing Line Press), and On the Edge of a Very Small Town (self-published).


The poems in Mark Jackley’s Many Suns Will Rise use compression as a virtue. The short poem’s power is on full display in this book. Like a piston in its cylinder, the poem compresses until it explodes. Sometimes the poem compresses image by image until it seeps into our eyes and grabs hold of us. The range of the imagination in these poems is their stronghold on the reader. This book deserves our attention. ~Andrew Cox, editor of UCity Review and author of The Equation That Explains Everything, Fortune Cookies and This False Compare




I stood back and regarded the absence of my wallet,
the Honda keys that take me in little circles and
gazed upon a perfect slab of emptiness and light
streaming from the window, from the larger light.
It was enough to make me wish that I were a dust mote,
electrical and dancing, time keeping me.

My grandfather’s dresser. A drummer who departed,
shining and alone, to no music.




I am driving
to work.
You work,
inhaling hay.
Teach me
to wade in shit
all day
and rid myself
of torment
with something
like the tail
we had
before words.





The stray dog in the photo
Mary Lou took the year before
she died was me, she said,
always drifting. In my defense,

the dog is sniffing the scrub and nothing
of the Utah desert,
cool and lovely I imagine
after morning rain,

itself a traveler
and shape-shifter, mentor to coyotes
who wait for you to blink,
then disappear beyond the frame.





you who
slowly open
your eyes
neck craned
head slumped
as if a
looming over a hole
without end
it seems
want badly
to believe
there is a
something livable
will rise

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