Two Poems

The Discovery of Laughter It comes out of an egg. The eggshell thin enough to crack upon a whiff of breath. It seeps out, a pungent goo with a lopsided grin and no ambitions. When it lands on bare earth, it trickles down, taints our well water. Its bones are always broken as they are brittle. It is not supposed to live forever. As it grows older, it develops bad posture hunching and hunkering down each day showing us what it is made of. He Ate Himslelf To Death He likes his hunger buttered, pan-fried with onions and garlic, saffron in an afterthought. Soy sauce on beef. The darker, the better. He closes his mouth sometimes, savours the emptiness of being full. He would have used the fork to spear the seasoned fish until he realized its tendency to water. So he begins to use his hands on everything: the chicken wings, the chili, the glazed ham, the guacamole, the strawberry rhubarb pie, the cheese cake. The leash called satiation loosens its collar a bit, and he relaxes. The watermelon melts into a red puddle; the rinds retain their curves. A tiny piece of chopped parsley embeds itself inside the gap between his front teeth. The green morsel will not budge. He hopes that eating more will dislodge it. He slurps the mussels. He foams his mouth with chowder. He gnaws at the lamb on the risotto. The heat, the aroma keeps him going. Every day, the dinner plate is half-full. The glass, too.