I’m in my room and I don’t mean to overhear <br />my mother talking to her lover <br />who is not my father, <br />(she doesn’t like me knowing, even <br />after the divorce) and <br />who may or may not be <br />her lover anymore, anyway, <br />after their conversation about all the things her therapist told her <br />for example, <br />Stand Up For Yourself and Stick With Your Convictions <br />but in our little apartment our rooms are so close <br />and in a flurry, voices rise. Neither do I mean to forget <br />three hours later <br />that our rooms are so close and voices rise <br />when I’m talking to Danielle about whether we should get a pipe <br />or a bong <br />for all the weed we’re going to smoke this weekend <br />weed <br />is something my mother does not approve of <br />and if I can hear her, then <br />well she can hear me and <br />I <br />get a little worried <br />but as she emerges, just to chatter <br />about inconsequential things, I <br />sigh and give the woman some credit <br />and appreciate the deliberate silence for <br />I realize we both <br />(she, the mother,45 and I, the daughter,17) <br />must realize <br />the mutual value of secrets better left unspoken <br /> <br />either that or <br />she’s getting old and <br />hard of hearing.<br /><br />Zoe Nyght<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/secrets-17/
