Sunday, January 2
THE TRUTH IS
Quiet woman polished bright by nerves, I once felt edgy
for dying the ends of my hair purple. The hairdresser
asked if I had anyone special. I dated a man
who held a good job and liked museums. Walking,
we saw a drunk girl in a leather skirt—heels
hobbling down shopping-center cobblestone,
her thin bird-arm linked through a friend’s.
He rolled his eyes, said, do you go out wearing skirts
like that? On the dating app, I wrote: loves dogs
and mimosas. It wasn’t a lie, but I am
such a liar. For example, I told that guy yes,
I have a skirt just like that because he pissed me off,
and I say I’m fine with whatever or this is stupid,
but I’m concerned I may be nothing more
than a very nice lady, and soft in the hands
of whoever will take me, that I carry anger around
like a weak religion—a presence absent
from my actions, muted and reserved
for occasional ceremony. I’ve heard of planting
St. Joseph’s statue upside down in the yard
to sell a house, but have found no trick to marketing
my internal monologue. The truth is, I want
to keep the bright mess of my dog heart.
The ground behind my home is ungroomed
anyways—crows and mulch, squirrels
searching the dirt for what they’ve buried.
(Emily Cinquemani)