by Paul Guest
The auburn hair of happiness fusses
with itself, not licked by one
cow but by entire, dalmational herds,
at last coming home. Happiness
knows each song you request
like a prayer. Happiness opens up so like
the bleeding-heart flower,
from its scarlet, low tip,
you could cry. Happiness does not
let you. Happiness knows
bad jokes. You should not
laugh, you’ve heard this
all your life, you yourself have recited
some variation on the theme
in moments of stunning
desperation, when happiness
seemed a phantom,
when brother sadness collapsed around you
like February and no one
spoke any language
but grief—
but here you stand, bending back
like a sapling,
painted by sun. So you’re laughing.
You’ve missed the punchline
so perfectly executed
like a diver entering endless blue water.
Happiness starts over,
it begins again. It goes like this.
after
Ted Worozbyt