happy

William Aarnes

Having to talk doesn’t make her happy.

She feels put on the spot, doesn’t like

the pitch of her voice, can’t ignore the way

her left hand waves about unless she focuses

on keeping it still.

So she is the silent one

in her reading group, though happy to host

when her turn comes up, delighted that today

the weather lets them gather on her back porch.

The prosecco makes her happy, her hors oeuvres.

She’s happy to stay quiet as her friends claim

that the house finches crowding her feeder

aren’t aware of being happy that she’s put out

the seed. They maintain that birds can’t dwell

on what they’re doing, that they just fly up

without thinking to peck out —and scatter—

what they need. No more than those squirrels

beneath the feeder browsing spilled sunflowers

can they tell themselves they’re happy.

Her friends are congratulating themselves

on being human, telling her she should feel happy

that, filling the feeder, she can think to herself

that she’s filling the feeder.

She listens, her right hand

holding her left wrist. Three females land at the feeder,

joined by a male, at least eating if not happy. She keeps

to herself that it was Mill who wrote that asking

if you’re happy means you’re no longer happy.

It’s one of those thoughts that make her happy.