i.

She could laugh
and tell me she’s fine.

ii.

She might ignore me
transfixed by the weight loss
commercial on the screen.

iii.

Maybe she won’t hear me.

My courage would fade
with my words
and I’d never mention it again.

iv.

There could be a pause as she looks at me
then looks away
as if I'd never said anything.

v.

She could deny it.

I wouldn’t believe her,
but I’d pretend
that I did.

vi.

There could be a moment of silence
before she says, “Yeah…so?”

I’d try to explain that she needs
to get better
but she’d pat her stomach and say
"That’s what I’m trying to do.”

vii.

She might listen to me.

Maybe she'll appreciate
that all I want to do
is help her.

vii.
The door could swing open
as her mom comes in
telling us it’s time for dinner.

The conversation would be left behind.

Sitting at the dinner table
she'd play with her food,
leaving it on the plate.


ix.

She could deny it.

I would tell her not to lie to me
and she’d get upset.

We wouldn’t talk
for two or three weeks.

x.

At the last second
I change my mind
and say “Never mind.”

She knows that I know
but she won’t mention it again.

Instead, we hold
the delicate silence between us
because I’m too afraid
to break it.