Austin Robert Smith

BREAK

In the weather. In the pane
Of glass the tired inspector spots,
Stopping the belt that brings
The windows of unbuilt houses
To her with a childish earnestness,
For hours. In her shift.
In the voice of her mother
In the break room on the phone.
In the bone. In the morning,
After a solid night of driving,
In the rest stop parking lot.
In the mountains, where men
Decades dead put the road through.
In her father’s hip where he fell
In the shower. In the curtain
Surrounding his hospital bed.
In the eye contact she has tried
To make with him ever since
Those nights in her room,
In her bed, her teddy bear watching.
In that same hip that ground
Hard against hers. In the X-ray
In the doctor’s hand. In all
That light, the darkness of it.