What You’ve Made of Yourself

Oct 1 2011

It’s the definite article

that throws me off.

As if the truth

was singular, absolute

immutable.

Because it depends

on whom you ask

where you sat

what you missed.

Just as lies

are numberless

  —  of omission, misdirection

best-intentioned,

bald-faced
or black.

Politicians know enough

to change the subject

fast.

And you can always fire back

your own question

accusation

partial fact.

Or, feeling unfairly attacked

affect the puppy-eyes

of mock indignation.

The trouble with so many lies

is keeping track,

cataloguing just what you said

and to whom.

Especially when

you start to believe

what you’ve made of yourself,

an impostor

in an empty suit.

She demurely pursed her lips

looking pleased with herself,

like the cat that ate the canary

staring impassively up.

Mischief glinted in her eye,

inviting you to guess

project

your illusions, and hopes.

She is the spider

ensconced in her web,

imperious, lethal
well-fed.

A tissue of lies

you spun yourself,

as the sticky silk

quickly tightens.

And struggling

makes it tighter still.