On her eggs laughter    

I push you
in your wheelchair
to the open kitchen door
to catch some sun.

The dove burbles
(deep and sweet the sound
you complain is boring)
unruffling my own feathers
after the difficulties
of the morning – the cries
of pain, the wet sheets,
the stains of sadness,
which won't wash out.

"She sounds as if
she's sitting on eggs,"
I remark, "certainly those
are the sounds I'd make,
if I had eggs to sit on."

You burst
into the loudest, boldest laughter
I've yet heard from you
since you were 'struck'
(the word you've used
to describe your bad luck).

"Good that you don't,"
you observe – with that stubborn refusal
to imagine any self
in any situation other than
their own.

But the contented gurgle
of the dove, combining with
my whimsy of words
did have you erupt –

there's joy
in your heart
that will yet out

– despite all fuck-ups.

– Silke Heiss