She laughs like rain on silver
When she holds her newborn brother.
Like a seagull on the beach
When she's joking with her mother.
Like a smoky saxophone
When she's been with a man.
Like a tickled baby
Just because she can.
She laughs like rattling dollars
At the things she can't afford.
Like a watchdog's bark
When people's voices are ignored.
When a baby died last month
And the culprit got a pass,
She threw her head back on the bed
And laughed like broken glass.
Author's Note: My roommate is Inuit, and a trained social worker. For the story of the baby, Google "Cape Dorset", "Nunavut" and "health care".