My mother taught me silence like a secret handshake,

more muscle memory than vow.

When asked about her now, a hush

entangles fingers, slaps, knocks fists.

I say everything

but this. She made my body

a ghost story no one would believe.

Least of all, me. She made me open

to interpretation. Every memory

a plot hole she could prod.

She taught me to draw

so lightly nothing needs

erasing. The trick’s pretending

you intended each mistake.

She made my memory

a line break, taught me to shape

the white space, until even

silence stays unsaid. If only she’d bent

my fingers back, pressed

for a promise, I could say this much

for sure: She insisted

I harbor secrets in my stomach.

She shelves every swallowed story

under loyalty. She taught me

to write fiction

every time I sign my name.