her shoulders shrink into her chest as she sleeps
to give him more room on the bed.
some things aren’t getting said.
“have you grown?”
i watch her sip her white wine
out of the glass
that clinks loudly on the counter.
hit glass too hard and it will shatter.
“no…”
i listen to her sobs.
they come from anger,
they come from fear.
i feel her shaking arms collapse as we embrace
our knees shrinking to the ground.
“
you must have!”
but I haven’t grown, Mom.
it is the space surrounding us that seems to be
e x p a n d i n g.
the silence of her sneaking down the stairs
hides her cravings
for chocolate in the dark.
she lets the calories decide how much space she is allowed
to take up.
the warmth under her covers
allows her to stretch
and hide
from the growing
of broken glass,
drunken insults,
and my father’s stomach.
I feel my legs cross on the hot plastic of crowded subway cars
to make more room for him.
my thighs chafing,
because I am taught not to grow out,
but in.
“Inheritance is accidental.”
I think as I watch my mother
and her wine-soaked lips
from across the kitchen counter.
