I sat curled on the other end of the couch, the moon,
through the window behind us, a disco ball glittering
the dark room. John Cleese (your favorite) silly-walked
his long mantis legs down streets and avenues in a city
you’d never been to, in a nation whose ancestors
chased yours across the wilderness Atlantic. But you
laughed anyway—hard and quivering, the sort of laughter
often mistaken for weeping. “Isn’t he handsome,”
you said. “Like your grandfather.” The bowler and suit
Cleese wore were black as a hearse. The next morning,
both of us drowsy, I could again see that cloud gathering
in your face. So I silly-walked to the cabinets above
the sink, retrieving the Corn Flakes. I silly-walked for a bowl,
trying to mimic Cleese’s exaggerated stride, his flawless
pirouette. You burst, so I continued to the fridge
for milk, and then to the drawers by the oven for a spoon.
Even when Mom groaned to know what I was doing
and Dad growled for me to sit the Christ down, I kept
silly-walking as the tears streamed down your cheeks.