I called desire a lie that wants a cure,
       

I called desire a lie that wants a cure,
but don't assume the cure for lies is truth,
or that by cure I meant a kind of health.
In that house, moods and silence made obscure
judgments, so how could anyone be sure
what filled the gaps—willful blindness, or stealth?
They spoke in archetype—the father, youth
and age, the woods, the snake. To be mature
meant to know less, so even no and yes
became mysterious. Did my father
really send us the envelope of dimes
that rained onto the yellow carpet? Less
than a dollar's worth of scorn my mother
denies if I remind her, every time.

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Copyright © 2018 Henrietta Goodman All rights reserved
from All That Held Us
BkMk Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission