One (Sarah Crossan)

No One mentions

We eat baked potatoes for dinner,

crunchy shells with fluffy innards

that we smother in butter, grated cheese and tuna.

Mom asks about school but she

isn’t as interested as we’d expected—

or hoped.

She eats slowly and

stares at the tiny bubbles tiptoeing their way

to the top of her sparkling water

while Dad lies in bed,

stinking up their white sheets,

sleeping off the whiskey.

No one mentions the spare baked

potato getting cold in the oven.

No one mentions the stench of vomit

wafting up the hall.

We keep our voices low,

our mouths full,

and hope that tomorrow will be

different.