Jim Zola

My Reckling

Back then you refused the light,
wombstuck, and made the iron bed shake,
made the monitor mountain climb.
There is breath and there is breathing.
You crested with glory’s cry. No,
I take that back. You gushed, refused
to follow directions. And still refuse.
They call it spirited. Thin boned,
your waking cough rattles my sleep.
How does one so slight, so misfired,
charge through every stop?

Even now you leave me
bit by bit
a baby tooth cocooned in tissue
a lock a note
why should I submit
to this sentiment?
because you come to me
mouth wide
bragging
about what is so close
to gone

Jim Zola has worked in a warehouse, as a security guard, in a bookstore, as a teacher for Deaf children, as a toy designer for Fisher Price, and currently as a children's librarian. Published in many journals through the years, his publications include a chapbook -- The One Hundred Bones of Weather (Blue Pitcher Press) -- and a full length poetry collection -- What Glorious Possibilities (Aldrich Press). He currently lives in Greensboro, NC.
home  • current issue  • archives  • submissions  • us