Another Poem I Won’t Show You

It’s kitchen table dining

Her sweater slipping off her shoulder,

Plain yogurt.

I say to her: you look skinny

And her face spreads open like runny eggs in a pan

We both pretend her reaction is appropriate.

Fingers sticky,

I grip my juice a little tighter,

I tell her

Of summer sun and bare chests,

Caught naked in his arms, I say:

My heart beat so loudly,

I’m speaking in cliches,

I thought it would leap right out of my chest,

Excitement, and fear, and

Dry toast, dab your pizza,

Count your calories, count your blessings,

I don’t know why I let him do it,

Mom, I don’t know,

It was something to do,

Swim and dance, feel pretty, and regret.

This table must be getting wider,

My shaky arms shorter,

My throat dryer.

Drink some water.

Litter the floor with Diet Coke cans:

I’ve been bad today,

This week, this month, this year

Treat yourself, eat a cookie, and regret,

Let a boy touch you until you wish he hadn’t.

Spiralized vegetables,

I’m dizzy, spinning round and round,

Eating discarded crumbs off her plate.

Eating discarded praises off her tongue,

Her eyes dim when they meet mine,

We both pretend they don’t,

And

I don’t say:

I’m sorry

I wrote a poem about you,

Because I know it’s one

I’ll never show her.