What I Said in Front of Everyone

My nephew said the kid had made a face

and pointed at his lunch while everyone stared.

I opened my mouth to say the right thing.

The cafeteria smell was already there—

industrial steam and styrofoam trays,

the cold of a Tuesday in March, a long table.

Marcus. His thermos. The circle of us.

The way I said it, like I was able

to decide for the room what was funny.

I don't remember exactly what I said.

I remember his face going flat and still.

I remember the laugh. I remember he read

the table instead of looking at me.

My nephew is watching from across the table now.

I say: that kid sounds like a real piece of work.

I sound like someone who knows better.

I sound like someone who came out right.

My nephew nods and goes back to eating.

Marcus. His face. Tuesday. White light.