Tiptoeing

By Megan Beck

Head between banisters.

My mom was yelling,

But somehow thought the stairs

Would hold her secrets.

The single syllable that comes before a stifled cry

Brought my hand to dry lip.

Stopping salt from tumbling over lines

Formed from staying up

A summer straight.

As soon as I got comfortable in the crouch

I heard footsteps shift.

I fled the crime scene. Closed my door the silent way.

Never spoke a word,

But knew everything.