he speaks the truth,
the man of many voices.
In the sleepy hour of cold dark night
He drifts in and out my peripheral.
In the silence of the bay waters
I know he’s about
Somewhere in the deep dark shadows
Of the garden walls
A twig snaps
Leaves rustle
Is it? Or is it cat paws?
I hear the silence
Then it is broken
By tormented screams
Outside my window
The primitive howl that breeds inside us all
From door to door, pane to pane
Screeches and shrieks
Shatters the warm summer night
Till at last he stands over me
He breaks into a grin and
speaks only the truth,
for he cannot lie.
He speaks the truth not as release
but as entrapment.
Speaks the truth when
all I am wanting is comfort.
He speaks the truth when
All I am wanting is forgetfulness.
He finds me in deepest hiding.
He brings with him no comfort,
no peace, no wisdom,
just the cold,
just the lifeless,
only the terror and fears and exposure.
He speaks the truth and it rattles inside my chest.
Beads of sweat form above my brow
My heartbeat so loud
It joins the drum beats
Out side my window
My mother’s scorn radiates upon me.
And the man who tells the truth
stands close by
hands outstretched
and warms himself in my pain.
He stands close by,
syringe in hand, dripping,
ready to dispense another dose.
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