Lying, My Favorite Sin
by Christine DeSimone
A lightning bolt is made entirely of error
because it goes against God: a whimsical mess
of cloud and collide. As soon as the alarm
peels off the sleep, I already feel the drought—
the dawn trek through the empty terminal,
leather braving a mechanical shine, shops
shut behind steel grilles. On Thursdays,
I’m a spy in a cocktail dress, and the throngs
are my marble amputees. How small
but difficult, leaving the world slightly changed.
Can the soul be used as caulk? Should I
enjamb? I haven’t been touched in a year.
No one decides these things. I read about a man
who put his affairs in order and told no one.
Because the largest lie is silence—
there is staccato in the naked flower
propped in a vase. And how about the shy
and nickel-colored night? When a palm leaf
drops, it fills my ear like a bird.
If you liked this poem, find more in our current issue.
Available through us or your local independent bookseller.
Christine DeSimone is an attorney in San Francisco. She notes: “The first line is from Galway Kinnell’s ‘Sheffield Ghazal 4: Driving West.’” E-mail: Leychica at aol dot com |