That Laugh / shakeema edwards

In the backseat of a friend’s ’98 Rav4, on a black night
with a malnourished moon, I laughed—
the type of laugh that dominoes from one throat
to the next until every person in the vehicle is gasping
for breath, but no one wants to breathe
because, like the dormant Kilimanjaro,
no one knows if such laughter will ever erupt again—
the type of laugh that makes you forget
there is crisis in Ukraine and civil war in Syria;
laughter that obliterates recollections
of falling asleep in drenched t-shirts
during the first months of Antigua Girls’ High School
because sticks and stones broke fewer
bones than the words that impaled you on a daily basis;
laughter that wrestles with your memories
and pins in a corner the image of you
licking salt from your open wounded
pride and popcorn butter from your
fingers, as your only friend was a Panasonic TV set;
with whom you watched Johnny Depp on VHS
strum a cigar box ukulele;
Leo DiCaprio sink in the Atlantic;
heard Kate Winslet whisper,
Come back; and whispered with her;
laughter that resurrects
yellow graduation tassels; lips learning to part,
revealing white-picket-fence teeth the summer day
you got your braces off;
laughter that inevitably ends with streaks of salt on your skin

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