Laughter

I wish laughter were
the last thing to go
but it goes
before hearing,
before thought,
before breath,

this bubbling thing, this spasm,
this wriggling fish,
half muscle, half air,
that flops out of us,
with a hook in its flesh.

I wish, one last time, I had heard
the collapse of the tent
of your expectations—
that gasp of recognition
when reality set in, and shook

you—the slow motion surprise
of an elegiac comedy
or bumbling profundity; the swift
kick of irreverent rationality,
or elegant absurdity;

the canvas roof caved in
and you, sitting wrapped in the fly
with your laughter flopping—
silver, strange, familiar—
as walleye or trout,

on the hook end of breath:
half live,
half divine;
half tickle,
half shout.

To the End by Susan MacLeod

 
Listen to Anna Quon read “Laughter.”