Opal by Jane Zwart

All summer, my son played with a boy

whose mother I never saw, and no one,

not the boy or his brother or his father 

writing code on the porch, ever explained; 

no one said divorce or nurse’s hours.

No one said dead. No one even said she 

except to tell about Opal, who blushed

in her sleep, who boasted dinosaur 

forebears and untrimmed remiges,

and who, just when the cold put a stop

to our letting doors stand open, saw 

her chance. I’d know that face anywhere

my son says, genuflecting, almost, before 

the photo taped to a pole. I do not tell him

how alike cockatiels look. I do not tell him

that I see his friend, neck cocked and cheeks 

chapped, face upturned, everywhere 

maples, ruffled, drop one of their yellow roost.

Jane Zwart teaches at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, The Southern Review, Threepenny Review, HAD, and Ploughshares, as well as other journals and magazines.

19 February 2024