The Nothing We Serve

Mom texts: What are you bringing?

The question arrives like a bill.

I scroll past my cousin's menu—

Turkey, stuffing, the weight of things

we're supposed to say and won't.

I almost typed something. A heart. A lie.

My fingers hovered.

Didn't press.

Nobody speaks at Thanksgiving anyway,

we just sit and eat what was promised

and don't mention the divorce, the job loss,

the way the table has three fewer chairs

than it used to.

We carve the bird and pass the quiet,

pass the don't-ask-me,

pass the I'm-fine-I-really-am.

I'll bring wine and say nothing.

Mom will smile and mean:

why didn't you try harder?

The turkey will taste like paper.

We'll be grateful it's only once a year.