Fine

Dad called and asked how I was.

I said fine.

There was a pause—the because

of everything I won't define.

He heard it. The kind of fine

that closes doors.

The kind that means decline

politely, and he stores

it, lets me keep the lie

like it's mine to own,

like saying it out loud was why

I could keep it thrown

into his silence.

The phone was warm in my hand.

The screen made my face tense

in the dark, and I understand

now that his not-asking

is a kind of grace,

a permission, a tasking

to lie to his face,

and I'll never unknow it,

never unsee the way

his silence let me show it—

all the things I won't say.