Friday, April 15, 2011

Self-Portrait, With Gaping Lies

He will tell you lies about himself,
not to make himself look tall or strong,
not so that you’ll think he’s nobler than
he really is--it’s not like he once ran
into a burning building, returned with two
children in each arm. It’s not like
he counsels rape victims or works long hours
uncovering cures for chordomas, sarcomas.
For instance: he will tell you that today
he rose with the sun, tended to plants,
made bread, which he later broke and then...
what difference does it make? You’re never here.
You, the one to whom his lies are flung
like chains into the sea. You, your glasses
perched like a suicide on your nose’s edge.

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