joanna gordon



I found my joy in a piece of bread
It was a spongey-good bread

I found my joy stuck to butter-paper
spreading its legs easy over breakfast toast

once, as a kid, I ate a stick of butter 
and my mother said I had no self-control

which is true since I found my joy tangled 
around a ghostly boy the other night and then

I found my joy in an empty bed the next day
maybe he melted into the covers or maybe 

he just went home but still I found my joy inside a soup pot
I brewed it for days and watched the broth deepen into bone

I found my joy in a bowl of cereal
which is also a type of soup

I found my joy washed in sun 
I let my legs out down the street, hairy n bare

and rubbing up against each other like cats 
I found my joy in the little red rash that spread 

angry along my thighs afterwards, so grateful 
for the friction my thighs create when I walk

I found my joy in my own fires burning low,

of being mostly ash and a struggling ember

I found my joy threaded through a needle, because yes
I am now the single woman who does needlepoint—

I found my joy today, forgotten I think—
just an old tube orange lipstick in my purse

and still, I peel it’s streaking face from the cap
use it to draw a bonfire over my lips, or something pretty

I think I found my joy today, but it was mostly fake
crappy plastic glitter stuck to my face