Truth serum cannot be made alone. We will begin with stories
in which there are red flowers, white flowers, maggots, gold.
Add walks in the woods where the walls of the gorge
still remember when they were plateau. Hours
of listening to the other voices of ourselves speaking.
Bright chime of a singing bowl. Scent of burnt toast.
Taste of wild muscadine. Snaps and laughter and scratch
of pen on paper. Acorns and snake skin and hazelwood.
There is truth here to be found, but no one
can serve it to you. You must choose it. And it’s slippery–
like your own handwriting that you later can’t read,
like wet leaves on a hill, like the sun that enters the grove,
then is gone.
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