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September 10, 2026

FOLLOW THE HAPPYS

Katie Mansfield

The black sign nailed to the telephone pole instructs: FOLLOW THE HAPPYS.

At the corner store I buy a fizzy cold soda so I can swallow the happys.

 

The summer we slink home to my tiny room near the White Sox stadium,

giggling over fried rice at 3 in the morning, Chicago the happys.

 

Back when my foot slipped on wet rock and I hit the water,

laughed despite the burning in my nostrils: sheer bravado, the happys.

 

My friend studies the spines on my bookshelf while I tuck the blankets

around our legs. I brew tea. She asks: Can I borrow the happys?

 

My first concert was the San Antonio rodeo. Ask me how to lasso forgiveness.

Whether I regret the things we said on that couch. Deep and desperado happys.

 

The brunch place we keep forgetting to dine at is called El Mil Amores.

A thousand loves. Hashbrowns, chilaquiles, orange juice and avocado happys.

 

Outside of the bar, I watched them gently pass the cigarette. Is it selfish

that I wanted to be shared? I coughed; they turned. Marlboro, the happys.

 

I change the pronouns and tenses in my poems. They’re not meant to be diaries.

The truth stampedes through them anyways––buffalo the happys.

 

Every phone call I begged for you to believe in another horizon.

I bartered our present for the future. Tomorrow, the happys.

 

I stare at my name in your handwriting. Dear Katie. How to tame

this creature in me, when you aren’t here: hollow the happys.

Katie Mansfield (she/her) is an air sign, a storm of feelings, and a collector of too much washi tape. She has been published in places such as Honey Literary and Silly Goose Press and is interested in, as Chen Chen once wrote in a tweet, “the powers of sweetness.” On the internet, you can find her on X @mansfieldnotes or Instagram @sprinklek. In the real world, you'll probably find her with a sandwich, sitting in a patch of sun.

 

 

 

I love street signs and graffiti—it’s fun to see what other people have inscribed upon the world, and the more cryptic the message, the better. I came across the sign that inspired this poem while I was running errands, and on my way home I couldn’t help riffing: well, has someone labeled the happys for me to follow? Will I find them throughout the city? What if my happys look different from someone else’s? The ghazal, with its song-like kafiya and radeef, ended up being the perfect format to iterate upon this idea.