Wired up to the lie detector, I confess:
I lied that goddesses
need magic accessories
that makeup deepens the glance
and the clothes reveal grandeur
L’élégance sans nom de l’humaine armature
leaving behind old tomes and dusty counsel
for the happiness near at hand, near at heart:
swimming in a drop of water :
The unwise gain what the wise may lose
But I didn’t speak to those
I couldn’t save,
I didn’t answer the forests’
thousands of letters, dead leaves,
I didn’t stop air in willow flute
I threw open the door to the florist’s storeroom
I was the target
of those I taught to use ply the bow
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 2.