The Thing Nobody Named

My mother set down the gravy boat.

Steam rose like an answer no one asked for.

No one moved toward the door.

My father said something to keep us afloat.

He asked about my cousin. She changed the subject

to the weather. We knew what that meant.

We knew what silence was meant

to hide. We kept our eyelids shuttered.

My brother's fork was halfway to his mouth.

He put it down. Picked it up again.

We watched the turkey cool. We didn't say when

he'd be back. We looked toward the south.

Thirty seconds of silence has a shape.

It takes up space at the table. It takes

the air that we breathe. It makes

what we don't say into something agape.

My grandmother passed the rolls without a word.

Didn't say his name. Didn't say where.

Didn't ask if he was still out there.

Didn't say what time brings, what we'd heard.

We ate. We thanked the food.

We passed things back and forth.

And the thing we didn't name—its girth—

lived in our silence, in our mood.