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I Laugh at My Great-Grandmother’s Funeral photo

All the time I don’t know what I’ve lost. 
I overdraft my bank account. 
I can’t find the glasses on my head. 
I laugh at my great-grandmother’s funeral 
waiting for the incense to wake her. 
I don’t remember what I said
when I came out. I don’t remember
much about it, actually, just that there was a 
documentary on helicopters 
running in the background. 
The sputter of engine murmuring 
shshsh as if trying to silence itself. 
Sounds like thank you in Mandarin:  
xiéxié if the fog slumbers. My great-
grandmother dies in July, politely
Ohioan in the way she’s forgotten. 
I wonder what she would say. She has
ferried dynasty into a prairie of 
nowhere before dying with her throat
ripped out. I can’t bid farewell at the funeral
so I thank her instead, laughing because
these are the only words I know. Here I am,
wondering if loss is more an immigrant
than a heritage.


image: Laura Pinto