Eyelids
quiet
like
the
air
before
a
storm.
The
nostalgia
of
your
laugher,
rather
the
absence
of
that
memory,
stirs
a
sigh
from
the
dark
matter
in
my
lungs.
You
call
me
at
4
am
from
your
hospital
room
asking
if
I
will
be
in
the
square
to
watch
the
bomb
drop. Me:
“No.
There
are
too
many
people.”
You:
“Oh,
okay.
Well,
nice
talking
to
you.”
(Where
did
I
file
it?
Next
to
the
unpaid
bills
and
the
cancellation
notices?
Yes,
yes,
right
where
I
lost
it.) I
will
invent
your
laugh.
“OOOOOOHHHHHhhhhhhh----Ha-ha-ha!”
then
“huh-huh-HUH!
Huh-huh-huh!”
and
then
“Ohhhh…yah-yah-yah!
That’s
a
GOOD
one!
Yah-yah-yah!”
You
laugh
with
your
whole
body
in
silence.
With
purse
smiling
lips,
you
inhale
through
your
nose.
Squeezing
in
your
diaphragm,
your
head
tilts
back
and
jaw
drops.
Shoulders
lift
to
your
ears,
chin
up,
eyes
hold
a
squint.
Parting
your
lips,
you
keep
your
breath.
Subtle
tremmors
ripple
across
your
belly
until
nature
forces
exhale. Exposed
fragility.
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Exhibition: The Last Performance [dot org] @ Haus Der Kulturen Der Welt