I'm a professional liar.
I know them like the freckles
on my arms and your dissonant,
holy stare. White lies slide,

discreet, into hungry pockets.
Self-preserving lies choke
in the spaces between us.

after Theodore Roethke’s “Dolor”

I will know the subtle buoyancy of lullabies,

clean in their songs, whisper of blanket and rocking chair,

all the insomnia of dirty diapers and formula,

solidarity in local restaurants,

grocery carts, bathrooms, and oh Lord

the quiet violence of screams and whines,

loneliness of electric bills, shaking hands, carseat,

restless cadence of hopes and dreams.

And I will see vomit from the curves in the road,

softer than moods, sane, more flowing than wind,

rift almost smooth, through brief Sundays of naps,

raising a plain rash on bottoms and rosy noses,

willingness of the knees, the waddling of hips in front

of feet, and maybe just maybe, immortality.

The Tower of Pisa leans.
     The Vatican cracks and fades.
London Bridge is wearing away
     And drifts to the Everglades,

Where the old miasma rises
     And predators wait in the mud
While lingering insecticides
     Course through their cold blood.