The Liars
       

How I admire their skills,
their easy way with oratory:
the phrases, full of promises

that trip from their tongues
and into the public's ears,
their finesse at sharing

life's most intimate details
without stammering, stumbling—
loves lost, damage suffered,

homes they owned, then lost,
cars they cherished, then crashed.
They narrate every detail

without flinching, crying,
so swift in their stories
everything you thought was true

blurs, right and wrong
shifting in and out of focus.
It's not that they mean

to be dishonest, after all,
everyone lies, and some
are just better at it

than others, some have the gift
that enables them to glide
where others break down,

to remain placid while others,
nonplussed, cannot figure out
the deceptions they've woven,

unable to remember
the logic of their lies.
I wish I could be one

of them, so proficient
at making the world bend
to my desires, but I haven't

the skills, the patience,
haven't been a believable liar
since sixth grade when I lied

my way out of boring homework
by telling my hapless teacher
I was a slave at home-cooking,

cleaning, washing every dish.
When I was found out,
I couldn't sit for a week,

the lies beat out of me
by my stern father,
who, incidentally,

made his living from lies,
selling one new product
after another, always claiming

this new version worked best.
I should have learned from him
how to sell something not

worth selling, should have
learned to sell myself
just as he sold himself—

lying right into everyone's
good graces with his smile,
speech, his absolute certainty

that everything he sold,
every word he uttered was
worth the cost, guaranteed.

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Copyright © 2018 Allison Joseph All rights reserved
from Confessions of a Barefaced Woman
Red Hen Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission