The soldier who kills for fun can laugh at
anything, but the man who was robbed of his laughter
by the killing searches for it everywhere. Sometimes
he encounters the shipping create in his basement and
says, “I should have thrown this away long ago,” and
pries open the lid. He sorts through the socks,
underwear, camouflaged boots, medallions, propaganda
leaflets and a pearl handed Bowie knife inscribed with
his name and “4th of the 9th Infantry, Manchu.” “I
should have thrown this away long ago,” he says again,
trying to feel how it was the day after first grade,
slamming the metal wheels of his skates to the sidewalk,
the wind lifting him up by the hair, and laughing,
laughing, laughing. But his voice only circles the
barrel of his throat, his laughter mute as army green,
course as a kettledrum.