Lipstick

I wasn't supposed to hear it.

Mom on the phone with Aunt Carol,

her voice so careful

it sounded like someone else's voice.

The careful kind of quiet

that means there's a word she won't say

because he might hear it.

The kind of silence

that takes up space.

"He's fine," she said.

But she didn't sound like she meant it.

She sounded like she was reading from something.

Two coffee cups in the sink this morning.

One still has her lipstick on it.

Both of them sitting in cold water

like they've been forgotten.

Like nobody's coming to get them.

I think that's when I knew.

Not from a fight.

Not from a door slamming.

Just from the way she didn't laugh

when her sister said something funny.

Just from the lipstick on the rim

and the cold water

and the careful, careful voice

of a woman who's learned

how to disappear

while standing in the same kitchen

where she's been standing for years.