The Truth Be Told

I'm tired of lying, she said, a tissue
held close to her overflowing nostrils,
blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail,

looking like the eight year old girl
she was once, when her mother fled
the scene in bathrobe and bare feet,

when her father pulled out the gardening
shears in the utility room, his face somber
and set. It does no good, you see, she says,

to keep telling yourself there is no blame,
there is no sense in fighting what's passed,
there is no reason to keep pulling another

tissue from the box. She knows mom and dad
are a done deal, that alcohol and loneliness
befriend those who can't allow room

for closeness, those whose lives depend
on the burn down the throat, the needle
in the arm, the grey smoke filling living

and dining rooms, kitchens and hallways,
mind and lungs. Her apologies are a litany
of the inexcusable. At one point, she looks

out the window at the pouring rain, the leaves
bending beneath the weight of water and wind,
her mouth upturned in a half-smile, and she

says something about how much she's missed
her garden and her children, how she's never
been away but never been there either, how

maybe the rain will settle the dust and ragweed,
how she won't know how to explain the tears.