Grade Five Knives

We are curled up in bed--
the usual routine

when Alexander breaks my heart again--
the usual routine.

'I auditioned for the talent show," he says.
I answer, "Oh?

I didn't know..." bite my tongue, decline
to end "...you had a showy talent."

Opt instead for "...you were doing that."
"Yep," he says, "I sang."

"Oh?" I lurch inside. See, my son,
my sweetly naive son

is not so hip sometimes, and I
having been there fear the cruel

knives of grade five. "What did you sing?"
"The best song ever," he says. "Oh?"

"Baby Beluga--you
sang it to me when I was born."

He drapes a thin arm over me
And falls fast asleep.

He cannot see me crying in the dark.
He cannot see me smiling through my tears.