Happy showed up late in the 19th century
like another version of the burden of slim bodies
or mother as the keeper of the hearth
or father as the strong man replete with ax
and barbells shaped like, well, bells. Bells
were for happy, too, the jester, jerk, dwarf,
fool. Now happy makes you mad
because you’re filled up with some chemical
to keep your cough down or your sleep
in check. You think you remember happy
and you think your neighbor’s got happy
and your neighbor’s smiling, but you
know smiles are the worst sort of darkness,
teeth you can fall a mile into, like kissing
and the tongues that throw germs
up into your palate until you’re gasping
for breaths and even phone calls are a chore,
but on the phone no smile’s required.
The bus driver pulled over and stopped
and said a lot of words about everyone
settling down RIGHT NOW, and you, you
young lady, why are you smiling, what
do you think is so funny? Happy wasn’t around,
and you didn’t even know you were.
We need a new word for not afraid, for not
worried to death, for not fighting,
for worried but hanging in there, for
my hair’s clean and the dog didn’t pee
on the floor and the refrigerator’s full
and I might steam some broccoli later,
for I can move, and for all I care
the past can go fuck itself and fuck happy, too
~ Laura Lee Washburn
Director of Creative Writing at Pittsburg State University, Laura Lee Washburn, is an editorial board member of the Woodley Memorial Press, and the author of This Good Warm Place (March Street) and Watching the Contortionists (Palanquin Chapbook Prize). Her poetry has appeared in Carolina Quarterly, Valparaiso Review, The Sun, The Journal, and elsewhere. Born in Virginia Beach, Virginia, she has lived in Pittsburg since 1997. She is married to the writer Roland Sodowsky.
The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative 