Jim's Mom

I rode my bike to Jim’s house
to play All⋆Star Baseball
on hot summer mornings,
rang his doorbell twice
and waited for him to answer.

But this time,

the window sheers parted slightly
and Jim’s mom opened the door
wearing only a silken half-slip
and brassiere.

The shell of the wall phone

pressed against her ear
and long blond hair,
wet from bathing.
She said Jim wasn’t home,

and I was embarrassed

by her large
green eyes
that flashed no hint
of awkwardness,

by her body,

like one of those models
in the lady’s lingerie section
of a Spiegel catalogue,
that stirred untimely yearnings.

Perhaps it was my stuttering

or her understanding
of a young boy’s gawking
that made her smile sweetly
then laugh.

Even so, my body flushed

down to my toes.
And I ran home,
burnt
by the moment.


“Jim's Mom” was originally published in Ariel, 1994.