The Physiology of Joy: Kathleen Flenniken

In the bleakest centers of the body, researchers
have discovered tiny pockets of joy,
like the undersized bubbles that cling
to the corners of parched mouths.

We're trying to understand, the spokesman said.
He was staring into the camera. They might be
an immune system response to pain
or evidence that joy
in order to be released
must coalesce to a critical mass.
Then he leaned into our living room
to confide

that in his college anatomy class,
sometimes the bodies would sigh
at the end of a long dissection,
an unaccountable flutter under his hands.
Once he was last one out
of that blue gymnasium of a laboratory.
I don't know if it's proof, he said,

but when I switched off the lights
the transom windows glowed.

First, I had to go look up what transom windows are.

This is one of those poems where I'm like, I don't know what it means, but I like it! Just beautiful language, an interesting thought, something for my brain to chew on. Bubbles of joy? Hidden deep away in the body?

Joy bubbles up sometimes, it's true. Sometimes, out of nowhere. Sometimes, in our darkest hours, we feel inexplicable joy. Is this what she means?

Who couldn't use some more of that? Hidden pockets of joy, just waiting for the right moment, the right confluence of events, a patch of warm sun or five minutes of peace.