Your eyes, glass knobs, bubbles that rise
from the sink as we wash the dishes.
We open the door expecting
a ragamuffin face. You slip in
unnoticed, into air anointed,
smudged with talk. Something stirs
in the fireplace, in cold ash.
You are the light that flickers
and stops. We climb a ladder
to reach your feet. You are the whorled
absence of grace, an instrument
tuning the dark, a book splayed beneath
the coffee table. Here is the story
we write each time we die. Here
is the half forever dividing.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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.