New Jeanland

No one worries about the lake.
From the shore,
it looks peaceful.

I have become skilled
at looking undisturbed.
A practiced face.
A measured voice.
Hands folded neatly
around whatever remains.

People mistake calm for absence.
I let them.

It is easier than explaining
how much can sink
without a ripple.

The water cleared.
The branches remained.

I learned that pain
can be carried
the way lakes carry
fallen trees:
quietly,
for years.