joy

my father in an old

knitted sweater, holds his profile to the light

turns back and looks at

his cast shadow. says who do I look like

“Do I look. Like Hemingway from here?”

in a dream you saw

joy and it looked like

your mother’s damp cheekbones

curses

spilling onto her eyelids

like particles from a brick

smashed on concrete, settling on clean cotton

clear and loud muffled

by the silence of Sunday morning,

just to feel the joy of something breaking