— after Chekhov
On the day of your service, the sky opened
its mouth, snow fell out. We entertained,
trays of finger food and Christmas cookies.
In an upstairs closet I found your ski jacket,
its puffy cells sliced open by paramedics.
By habit, I searched the pockets, found quarters,
a stopped watch, receipts: my inheritance.
In Chekhov's story, Petrov noticed the snow
on his wife's face wasn't melting; he felt
something like grief. Mine comes slower,
but like the snow, covers everything.
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