The Lies Our Parents Tell Us
begin in childhood: you’re not dumb, you were not an
accident, the sight of you doesn’t make us sick,
we don’t think you’re ugly, and we swallow the lies,
with open hands and grateful hearts, because we’re so
hungry, because the lies are all we have. The lies
our parents tell us get woven into our bones;
they form the raised scars over the cuts of childhood:
your nose isn’t big, you’re not fat, it doesn’t hurt
lightning bugs when you crush them onto your finger
to make a ring, that man just kills little black boys
and girls don’t worry we’ll protect you and keep you
safe we love you. The lies grow with us, faithful
companions, more reliable than childhood friends
who break our toys or move away, warmer than our
favorite blankets, more dependable than lovers
who don’t show up or don’t call or stare blankly at
us from the arms of someone else. We trust the lies.
We know them. We take them into our own homes, wrap
them up in ribbons and bows, and give them to our
own children. And the lies go like this: your daddy
didn’t lose his job because he stole money, Aunt
Lorna didn’t kill herself, Uncle Max never
touched little boys or girls where he shouldn’t have, we
never heard of anyone doing anything
with sheets but putting them on beds, democracy
is the only viable government, God made
us to have dominion
over all the creatures
on earth, the planet’s ours.
Besides, it wasn’t us.
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Love in the Time of Dinosaurs © 1980-1986, 2000-2007, 2013, 2017 by Alexandria Constantinova Szeman. May not be reprinted or excerpted without written permission. Please do not support piracy of Intellectual Property.