Barbara spreads a rumor that my parents are getting divorced.
She is fifty, and sad, and has a lot of skin tags.
She clucks to the women in church that
She hasn’t seen them sitting together, pressed in the pew,
with smiles on their faces like advertisements.
I get the feeling sometimes that everything that is true is false
and vice versa. And vice versa.
Where real? How truth?
My mother finally knocked on Barbara’s door one day,
and nobody came.
But there was a fire going and
a steaming cup of coffee on the table.
Where God! Does truth live in cups of coffee,
in the breath-evidence of fogged glass? Or in the folds of our hands?
Why do we look, and against whom do we trespass?