And my words, as they entered the air,
became laughter, and rose with the crowd’s
laughter, until the room gave in to laughing—
a bottomless laughter, a sea of laughter driven
by helpless relief, as if all we could know, all we could say
shook free from the struggle, the grip of words, as if
the tangle-kneed, many voiced beast who crowded
our door, unappeased, had departed.
At first, a silence. Then, a breeze.

Charles Hensler lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Identity Theory, Rust & Moth, The Shore, Parentheses, River Heron Review, One Art, Stone Circle Review and others.
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