How easy it is to slip into old habits.
How easy it is to slip into old lies.
She tells me about her son, his prostitution.
I write nothing down. I have nothing
to give her that’s full or empty, just
reassurance. I hint and I hem and I haw.
I don’t even know how to haw.
Her boy, her beautiful boy, & she’d given him
all a boy could there’s love, and then
there’s this line. I can’t help but think
of mine and mine. And me: I’m so
introverted that way. Turned inside out
so all my pieces shine. No, glisten.
She’s as raw as I, but won’t say so.
I won’t speak a line. These children, tied
as they are to our bodies, pricking apart
innards like scribes. No, scriveners. No:
prognosticate, procrastinate, read the guts and tea
to see the what’s mine? I don’t know.
I have no words for her. Not mine,
not hers, not wry homunculi we birthed
and named into this world. I’ve lied,
again and again. She’s cried, but lies about it.