She brought it up the way you'd lift

She brought it up the way you'd lift

a box you'd forgotten you'd kept—

not cruel, just curious, almost fond:

the holiday dinner. Thirteen. The step

I took into a word I'd been

saying wrong my whole short life.

The whole extended table. My grandfather.

The pause. Not quite a knife,

but close. She said I turned

the color of the tablecloth, deep red,

and she was laughing on the phone,

not mean, just full of it. I said

I know, I know, and laughed too,

and we stayed in it a minute together.

Then she hung up and I sat with the laughter,

which is a different kind of weather

than the shame. Warmer. Harder

to carry without spilling.

I still won't say the word out loud.

Thirteen and certain and willing

to be wrong in front of everyone.

She laughed. I laughed. She hung up.

There's something warm in the memory now

I don't know what to do with.