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Jim Zola
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| The Girl Behind The Tree |
| I drive my kids through the
neighborhood to school. There's a girl standing behind a tree
halfway up Centennial. She's leaning or hiding.
One time I saw her face as she peeked around
the edge. It was covered with long black hair.
She's waiting for the bus alone. She has her reasons for
standing behind that particular tree each morning, just as I
have my reasons for flying out of the house with a cup of warm
coffee yelling at the kids.
But I find myself making up stories for her -
the cryptic notes she hides in her pockets, dark corners of her
room, the way she hates her mother's smile.
I know some morning
I'll drive past the tree and she won't be there. Then I'll wave.
In Her Pocket
I lean.
I like the way bark feels against my skin,
against my bones,
through my clothing.
The other kids stopped coming to this corner.
I look at my hands and see movies.
My hair is the curtain.
Sometimes,
I hear birds in the trees,
but never see them.
The man in the white jeep drives past.
I stare at my feet.
I know he'll return.
The birds tell me.
If I lean
hard enough against the bark,
I may disappear.
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My Mother Meets Ali
Thank you, Mr. Clay is what she said,
taking back the egg-stained napkin with the boxer’s scrawl
brought home to me. It was 1968
and the boxer might have struck a man for calling him Clay.
This middle-aged suburban housewife showed no fear.
Fear is something boxers recognize,
pursue. My fears are simple, common.
Looking down, mechanical failure,
the unnatural music of the heart.
When my firstborn learned to walk,
going from combat crawl to scoot to punch-drunk,
I struggled to let him fall. So much effort.
Tired, he would lay with his ear to the ground
listening to the earth’s inner-workings.
My mother’s memory is a feather.
On the phone, she forgets my name.
She doesn’t remember my first steps,
though she says she does. I have the napkin
tucked inside a book, the boxer’s name faded.
My mother shows no fear. She calls me
by my father’s name. I always answer.
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| Copyright © Jim Zola 2003. All
rights reserved. |
Jim Zola grew up in
upstate New York. Has lived in England, Missouri, and Michigan.
Currently lives in North Carolina with his wife and three
children. Works as a children's librarian. Has published a
chapbook titled "One Hundred Bones Of Weather," and in
numerous literary publications. Has several unpublished
manuscripts waiting for a publisher.
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Kudos
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Photo copyright © Jillian Ann. All rights reserved.
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