Joseph by Joseph Lezza

My father smelled of the forest;

some of that was his nature,

most of it came out

of a green glass pinecone.

My father had big hands.

He used them to skim the pool,

to build me a clubhouse,

and to wrap me

in the grizzliest bear hugs.

My father had a series of laughs,

from piercing to growling;

all powered by a joy so intense

it rattled the earth.

These are the things I remember.

These are the things I miss.

The smell, the feel, the weight

of his presence in this world;

a presence so great no absence

could wash it away.

---

Joseph Lezza is a writer in New York, NY. Holding an MFA in creative writing from The University of Texas at El Paso, he is a 2021 finalist for the Prize Americana in Prose. His work has been featured in, among others, Occulum, Variant Literature, The Hopper, Stoneboat Literary Journal, West Trade Review, and Santa Fe Writers Project. His debut memoir in essays, "I'm Never Fine: Scenes and Spasms on Loss," is due out February 2023 from Vine Leaves Press. When he’s not writing, he spends his time worrying about why he’s not writing. His website is www.josephlezza.com and you can find him on the socials @lezzdoothis.

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