Subway Sonnet

In which people who love each other 
betray the truth together. In which
one gives up the truth to make breakfast
for the kid.	In which faith lodges in the throat 
and then comes unstuck.	Our tongues
prise silences, as if body parts 
have autonomous minds.
The boy won’t complain about the oatmeal, 
though he’d prefer pancakes. What does it mean 
to be actually innocent instead of just naïve?
Can you reach back to that state? See him 
look at you both for clues. The dull chonk 
spoon-to-bowl settles us. Even as enemies 
together, may we sound like his heaven.