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Posts Tagged ‘truth’

One Eavesdropping

 

 

the truth

said the cloud

it leaks

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Thank you for blessing me with reality,

for showing me when I’m guilty

of what my friend calls cognitive slippage.

It’s like stuffing a big scoop of wasabi into my mouth,

thinking it’s guacamole. The mind believes

what it wants to believe until it’s shown otherwise.

 

Thank you for demonstrating how sometimes

I disconnect from the facts—especially when

emotions are involved. Like when I think

I’m a pool of warm soothing water

another could enter, but really, I’m a woman

made of bone and corpuscles. Little can I hold.

 

I always thought imagination was a gift,

but not, perhaps, when it puts me at odds with what’s true.

Dear moment, I want to be attentive. When you pull out the rug

from beneath my thoughts, I want to be the rug.

And when you poke my theories full of holes, I want

to be the hand that pokes, the fresh air that rushes in.

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The Truth

 

 

Inside the bright words

there are other words

that want to be said—

small words

in dark shells.

.

It reminds me

of the sunflowers

that grew in the fall—

how we loved them

for their golden petals,

 

but they were true

to the small dark seeds

that grew them,

to the small dark seeds

they grew.

 

 

 

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One Lift

 

 

hungry for truth

she pickpockets heaven—

unaware she’s the target

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The Truth and What-I-Want-to-Hear

sidle up to me like two old drunks,

one wearing a heavy coat and the other

stark naked.

 

“You know,” says the one,

leaning in to whisper,

“You know you are doing thish

perfectly. You are the besht mother

there ever was. Your children

are sho lucky to have you ash their mom.

You desherve a medal. Really. A medal.”

She hiccups at the end.

 

“Don’t lishen to her,”

says the other, grabbing

my arm and tugging me strong.

“You get it wrong a lot. And even

when you do your besht,

there’sh always more to do.

You fuck it up even when you’re trying

to get it right. It’s jusht what mothersh do.”

 

And we walk like that through the alley.

And we walk like that through the store.

And we walk like that through the living room.

And we walk like that to the car.

 

And the naked one laughs like a maniac

as she tugs on my arm again.

“But you love them, don’t you,

You love them chillens. Love is never

enough. And it’s all we have.”

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Mom, she said, is it true? And it wasn’t

that I’d tried to keep the truth from her,

it just never came into conversation,

old horses are sometimes used for glue.

 

Yes, I said, wishing I could soften the message. It’s true.

She knew its truth already, but don’t we all

sometimes long to be wrong? New tears dammed

in her eyes before they fell. Is that really

 

the world I belong to? she rued, then buried

her face in the couch. Two hours later,

I thought her same thought as I read the news:

Anti-Semitism. Bribery. Child sexual abuse.

 

I wanted to hear the stories weren’t true.

Oh world, so broken, still, unglued, I choose you.

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The Lesson

 

 

I asked the world

to teach me of truth

and waited and waited

for a lesson. Anything.

A bird. A rainbow.

A bug. A storm.

But nothing.

And so I went in

and made a cup

coffee—ground

the beans and steamed

the milk and cradled

the cup in my hands.

And I tasted it.

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A Shade of the Truth

 

 

 

 

How soon the flowers wilt.

Wasn’t it just yesterday

you planted them, just an hour ago

there were mounds of bloom

shining in the rain?

You want to believe there’s a flower

that never stops opening,

want to believe that flower

is you.

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After

 

 

 

cut off my tongue, then,

so I can’t say what I know,

and turn me into a nightingale

 

there are other ways to sing—

feel the sun, how it always tells the truth

 

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When they ask what you did this morning,

tell them, “Oh, nothing much.”

When they say, “What are you doing tomorrow,”

shrug and say, “Oh, I’m busy.

We have plans.” That is true.

Say goodbye today as if you mean it.

Do not mention the cake, the balloons, the gift.

I know. It’s hard to keep a secret.

And just when you think you would burst

if you could, remind yourself

it’s for their own good.

Tell yourself, it is better this way.

No. Sweetheart. Forget what I say.

If it’s not a surprise, that’s okay.

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