In the beginning, God wantedto be a comedian. What’s madein my image, but has no soul?he’d ask, and just stare at you,exchanging the idea of a punchline for something like endlessexhalation. He would raiseone eyebrow and ash his cigar.No laughter. Part of the issuewas the slight skew in the angels’sense of humor. Sometimesdozens would sit and watchthe obstinate waves battera glacier for weeks, only laughingwhen it calved and a shatteredhunk of dirty ice lunged freeinto the frigid Antarctic sea.Then they’d bray like donkeys.God took notes and tried usinga similar structure: the slowbuild that feels like boredom.Maybe good timing is toughwhen you’re eternal. Jokes,like most folks, have no ideawhat they mean until the end.
Michael Bazzett’s poems have appeared in Ploughshares, The Sun, 32 Poems, Copper Nickel, and The Iowa Review. He…
You're reading a preview of
The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, July/August 2018