My laughter waits under the ceiling of ocean
where tides no longer push.
I wait and watch from the air.
It silenced when the children stopped coming,
when the last abuela died,
and I am an uncelebrated skeleton lady
because no one,
no one,
not one of the many survived.
The wheel is behind me.
The fires.
The eyes.


The duck is a decoy to draw me down
but his bill has worn off with coaxing
and wind. I look for laughter, not him.
I watch for what I have lost
with eyes I no longer have.
I feel for leg bones.
I do not care about my hair,
my cockeyed veil,
the weightless gold of flown life.


The bleached vertebra on the beach doesn’t care.
It belonged to a whale who washed ashore before
I began looking, before the wings
of body-less gaviotas gathered to fish without beaks
and the penis of Juan Jose slowly made itself known
out of sand to beckon me from my stance.
This I ignore.  In death as in life.
Without laughter, what good but grief?
I wait, watching from the air
for laughter to giggle down there.


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