What I Don't Say

When my mother calls, I tell her about
my husband's bad habits,
the noise the car is making,
the new boss at work.
I tell her how I can finally see the grass now,
and yes I'm getting enough to eat,
and no I'm not pregnant yet.
I give her the answers I know she expects.

I don't tell her about the body they found
when the snow thawed, or that I could see
the flashing police lights from my balcony,
or how he had been missing since December.
I don't tell her how I can't stop imagining
the way the bullets must have exploded from the gun
or the way time must have slowed down for him
as he watched, frame by frame, the fatal lead
crawling toward his chest once, twice,
six times. I don't tell her that the killer
probably lives still; probably lives free;
probably lives close.

I don't tell her because she's too much like me
and I don't want her to worry.

Yes, I'm getting enough sleep.
No, I'm not overworking myself.
Yes, I'm okay.
Yes, I'm okay.
Yes, I'm okay.