Cynthia Bernard

Never Spoken

I wonder what secrets you left unsaid,
Old Man, during those angry years, during
those always-silent dinners, your eyes boring
into the table, your teeth tearing the bread.

What thoughts remained unspoken, Old
Man, during those never-at-home times, during
those second-job-at-night years, mother wearing
thin, kids staying away, not needing to be told.

I wonder what stories were rendered in your mind,
Old Man, during those voiceless weeks at the end,
those keeping-you-comfortable weeks, no friends

visiting, just the ones you would leave behind,

remembering the sting from your belt, your fist,
your few-but-caustic words, when now we reminisce.

                                     * * * *

I wonder, Old Woman, what secrets you left unsaid,
during those can’t-get-out-of-bed days,
those kids-ran-wild mornings, the always
dirty house, full ashtrays, no butter for our bread.

What feelings remained unspoken, Old
Woman, during those leave-me-alone times,
those go-outside-and-play days, give the kid a dime,
anything, just get away, out-you-go, no coat in the cold.

I wonder what stories spun out in your mind,
Old Woman, strapped in a wheelchair by your bed,
all the things you swallowed, fake-smile-and-denial instead,
kids didn’t visit much, long gone, leaving you behind.

We remember the cold and the lies, being left alone
while you slept—a house with no warmth, not a home.