Jim Zola

Gedankenexperiment

Boy howdy, I’m riding
that slump again.
Something at the joints,
some slogger at the humerus,
working the hulk of my former self.

Even my lover’s lover
calls me history.

I drum my tongue on your callused sole—
heel, toe; heal, tow,
allegro.

After that, I kneel to pray
earth’s hook will snatch me up.

Let me interdigitate,
tangle with the roots
of your weeds.

Grandpa on the Ceiling

Madame Blavatsky
sips her tea, winks
at the ceiling where he
serenades Matushka
on the melodica.

Somewhere still,
the Fox sisters crack
their toes—tap, tap—
like a language rehearsed
too long in the dark.

Madame Blavatsky
blows her nose, proclaims
ectoplasm is life.

Even the dead
seem embarrassed
by this explanation.

What If Jesus Pitched a Perfect Game

When I learned Jesus had brothers,
my first thought was family dynamics:
here is the Son of God,
and here is just James.

Imagine the apostles
as a baseball team—
the Mighty Martyrs.

Jesus as player-coach.
God as general manager.

All the nicknames—
Doubting Thomas, Slow Simon, Lefty.

And when Judas gets sent down
to the minors, then lower still—
banned for life—
Matthias comes in to replace him.

After retirement: fishing trips,
used car lots, stories told
too many times.

Not to mention beheadings.

But that day Jesus pitched
a perfect game,
his curveball breaking
like a small miracle.

Missing the Letter L

I stroke your eggs.
You kiss my eye ids.
We doom the chance
of famous overs.

Because of this omission,
Romeo assumes years bent,
spends afternoons wondering
what went right in our in and out

confusion. We cannot censure passion.
Pound the key. Search
past absence.
Desire.

Surrender.
Riposte and parry.
Poetry proves insufficient.
Sink back into waiting,

into murk. Erato sucks.
Expect my affections revived
once the repairman arrives.

A Poem for John Fink

Just because I ate a worm
when I was ten, my friends
called me Fink. No, wrong.
My father’s name was Fink,
and so I ate a worm.

Bug-a-boo under the bed—
listen: I have a pocketful
of gleam for you. The keyhole
leans into dark corners. My ka is me.

John Fink, John Fink, John Fink.
John—who left the moon on?

There goes the maddened pack
of nomad wallops. Grab your
alls and jump on the back
of the nearest Nibelung.

My lover is a plover,
a ring ouzel, a fuzzy
foozle, a worm scaturient.

“Enough of this,” John said,
and went back to bed.

Jim Zola is a poet and photo artist living in North Carolina. He has four poetry books available on Amazon etc. His next collection is titled The Ending Arrives Wearing Your Coat.