When My Son Asks About My Worst Experience
I Imagine that God is shaking
a Magic 8-Ball
and my tongue is shifting
somewhere between: Ask again later,
and Better not tell you now.
Instead of a lie detector,
I’m hooked to that machine
that tests for earthquakes,
and the needle begins to move
so quickly that the building
I’m sitting in starts to break apart
like a sand castle, then it’s the city block,
then the whole state slides into the ocean.
There are days I don’t want to die.
I can’t remember any of their faces.
Their names have washed away.
Perhaps the needle is drawing a picture
of what might happen,
or what’s already happened.
If I focus beyond the words
maybe the record won’t spin
If I speak to the past. If I even whisper
the sound would shatter stone.
I only want to tell him the truth.
I think he’s experienced the truth,
and I’m only lying to myself.
I Imagine that God is shaking
a Magic 8-Ball
and my tongue is shifting
somewhere between: Ask again later,
and Better not tell you now.
Instead of a lie detector,
I’m hooked to that machine
that tests for earthquakes,
and the needle begins to move
so quickly that the building
I’m sitting in starts to break apart
like a sand castle, then it’s the city block,
then the whole state slides into the ocean.
There are days I don’t want to die.
I can’t remember any of their faces.
Their names have washed away.
Perhaps the needle is drawing a picture
of what might happen,
or what’s already happened.
If I focus beyond the words
maybe the record won’t spin
If I speak to the past. If I even whisper
the sound would shatter stone.
I only want to tell him the truth.
I think he’s experienced the truth,
and I’m only lying to myself.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson