Joseph Faria


A Leap Between

I long once again to smell sweerbread
baking in the oven and hear chestnuts
rumbling, boiling on the stove top, and see
my mother's hands in gloves of white flour,
pulling on the apron of night's black face
and say it's dawn, but we knew it was far
from this place, my father had the sun
locked in his fists, he said the radio was
too loud, but it was my brother's voice he

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