The Quiet Game by Meg Bertram

I remember secret smiles
the ones we saved specially.
Candy bars in treasure boxes
buried in so much dirt
in your backyard at dusk.
Your mother, your Mona Lisa,
she seemingly does not notice
how the finger guns fights, obsolete,
were replaced by let’s play the quiet game.
We sit, sip silently Sundrops on the porch.
I don’t recall what we were fighting about,
but I can trace
the harsh lines, the tired, furrowing muscles.
I could paint
the reds, the pinks, the furry purples,
and the quiet hushed blues
of your face when you cry.