It’s Sunday,
and I call my mother.
I spend an hour picking shards out of my teeth
From whatever broke her.
It’s an art I’ve practiced since childhood:
Smiling with gums bleeding.

You’d only hear the grimace in my voice
If you listened to me like I was a person.
Listened
As if I was not a reflection
Or an extension.

It’s Sunday,
and my mother answers
Without the slightest hint
That by the time I finished
dialing her number
The first aid kit had already been opened.

My fiancée’s fingers hover over an
“Are you alright?” text
Poised to hit send
When she hears the grimace -

Because she hears the grimace.

It’s Sunday,
And I do not call my mother.
My birthday visited yesterday
And echos greeted me
In her place -

Fractures that had been growing
unspoken,
We fell into headfirst.

My gums aren’t bleeding
But my teeth still ache.