“When My Son Asks Where We Are From” by Jim Zola


When My Son Asks Where We Are From

From where broomcorn grows, grass to sweep Mother Lee’s
shaking under the bluestone, under the trickling
sluice of Groot’s Creek. We are believers
who toss mud bombs into the murk of Lock Seven,
ride home with dead cats slung over our handlebars.
We are from spoon-food they make of our bodies.
We are from there and forever and leaving.

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Jim Zola

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, North Carolina.

Photo Credit: Staff