Maria Zoccola
helen of troy goes parking with the defensive tackle
first time he asked, i got in the car—pontiac minotaur,
eight vees under a hood long enough to nest at least
four swans, two up and two back, or one single swan
beating her wings. i was all swans in those days,
all slump next to mom on the park bench, all yeah yeah
sure okay whatever, all breadcrumbs lobbed wristwise
to the pond mob, militia of orange beaks. a full-grown swan
can drop a body fast as headlights. a full-grown swan
knows where to land on a friday night, knows
how to cheer, and for whom, and what to do when
her halfback brother heaves his pads off the tailgate
and says i warned him to quit looking at you. but fifteen
is the age for looking back. oh, this was way before
the big cheese—high school roll of bleacher feet,
friday battles we waterloo’d with dismal dependability.
the depths of that weekly loss, like white feathers
on the tongue. the rage of it. when i got in the car,
i thought he’d been crying. i thought: robert redford,
andy gibb, that monkey they strapped down and launched
into space, what was his name, turkey or ham, some kind
of lunchmeat, something with the salt to ram a car
into drive. eighty-five out of town, wet sneer of engine,
gearshift squeezed up and up. i watched our old familiar hills
open their mouths and swallow the moon,
and when it struggled free again there always came
a new set of teeth. a full-grown swan has few natural
predators. dogs, mostly. raccoons, which seems unlikely,
given how much they joke with their friends, how they
hold open doors and almost win football games. and if
he didn’t stop? who would know, who would come
to chase me down? he parked in the shock
of last-harvest tobacco, unbuckled his seatbelt, took my
jaw in his grip. i can’t remember what i wanted.
homecoming, maybe. prom. or maybe it was the black fields,
velvet smother, how the night crept inside anything
with wings. his fingers in my hair, bright pulse of pain.
i thought: i don’t—
but what did i know? maybe i did.
the end was so quick. blinding headlights in the rearview,
tires in the dry dirt. my door yanked open. get out,
my brother said, jersey still drenched, his face
an iron bar, and i was so glad, and so furious.