by Joan Mazza
You are the master of your unspoken words,
but a slave to the words you have spoken.
~Winston Churchill
To hold a small treasure hidden in the palm or pocket,
to know no one knows what you know, the delicate,
intricate details of lacework, net of devious deceptions,
distractions, silky cover-ups that hide the fleshy truth.
To know the original connections, the biological father,
the mother who birthed the child, who is now an adult.
What does he know of his origins? Does he know
what I know? To have this secret—both gift and burden,
to carry it folded inside my story, part of his untold story.
To keep this cold gem, sometimes light as mist, sometimes
heavy as hematite, stone that cannot be sold or displayed
like a Monet stolen in the war, stashed behind a false wall.
To have my own secrets while being called open, candid,
transparent. To know how little I’ve said, yet labeled
blabbermouth by those who fear, to have so much more
to uncover, to risk respect, reputation, disbelief. To delight
in others’ surprise. What has been hidden in plain sight
in paper and ink? Watch the red velvet curtain rise.