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There is Only One Lie
Tracey Sullivan

There really is only one lie.
It is in the sin of omission.
What you didn’t say.
Where your lips didn’t touch.
Where the blank page of
your skin lies unprinted.
Because you never know
when it’s the last time
that it’s the last time.

And only then,
you look for a sign
in a day, for a clue, for a
break, for a reason
to believe that the endless
sameness and emptiness that
have come to fill the void
might end – and all that comes
is disappointment
hollowing the cheeks of time
and setting a cold, black
stone of panic
in the curve of your hip.

Bereavement takes a swipe.
Each unavoidable moment
follows the next in quiet
irreversible succession.
The bright clap of day
precipitates few actions
that retain some causal logic.
So what is left
is a remembrance of her.
Love. Memory. A glimpse
of a movement. The way
her mythic corporeality
came from her antipodean mouth.
It spoke of an alien presence
in this far land. Repeating.
There is only one lie.