Silence after thanks

The plates scrape quiet, fork tips pause—

steam curls faint from a half-eaten slice.

No one says the thing we all think,

words folded tight beneath the laughter’s crack.

The room shrinks with each swallowed sigh,

a chorus of silent confessions

lurking behind mashed potatoes and cranberry stains.

Empty chair at the corner, a glass half full,

things left unsaid pressing heavier

than the richest pie or salted ham.

We reach for smiles like they’ll carry us home,

but the silence hums louder,

talking between the cracks in the wooden table.