It’s My Joy

I can’t feel my arm; it’s bent around the headrest behind me to hold your hand as you fall asleep. Your tiny fingers use mine to rub your eyes and fight for comfort. But in the mirror I see your eyelashes flicker as the streetlights pass us and I think, It’s my joy to be uncomfortable for you. You and I have a fight. I say, “Let me brush your hair,” and we both fall to the floor crying because it was the end of the rope for both of us that day. But I see you twirl, I see