The Laugh

We're out and someone makes a joke about being soft,

and everyone laughs, and I laugh too, aloft

on the wave of it, the right kind of laugh,

the kind that says I'm solid, I won't gaff

on this, won't show I noticed the exclusion,

and I feel my jaw clench, the conclusion

of something inside me, something small

that I'm pushing down, swallowing it all,

and I keep the laugh going because to stop

would mean I heard it, would mean I'd drop

the performance, and I can't do that,

can't let them know where I'm at,

so I laugh, and I hate it,

and I keep laughing, and I know that it

costs something, costs the thing inside

me that noticed, costs the part I hide,

costs the constant work of being solid,

of not flinching, of staying stolid,

of watching someone be diminished

and pretending it hasn't finished

me off, that I'm not slowly breaking,

that I'm not tired, that I'm not shaking,

that this is easy, that this is fine,

that I'm good at holding the line,

and the laugh keeps going,

and something inside me keeps slowing,

keeps stopping, keeps dying,

and I keep laughing, keep lying,

keep being the person

who can do this, the one who's certain

he's okay, he's fine, he's solid,

he's everything a man should be, bold and

steady, and it's all a performance,

and the performance is the only thing I'm sure of.