I called desire a lie that wants a cure,

I called desire a lie that wants a cure,
but don’t assume the cure for lies is truth,
or that by cure I meant a kind of health.
In that house, moods and silence made obscure
judgments, so how could anyone be sure
what filled the gaps—willful blindness, or stealth?
They spoke in archetype—the father, youth
and age, the woods, the snake. To be mature
meant to know less, so even no and yes
became mysterious. Did my father
really send us the envelope of dimes
that rained onto the yellow carpet? Less
than a dollar’s worth of scorn my mother
denies if I remind her, every time.

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She logged the wrongs, added her own, I guess—

She logged the wrongs, added her own, I guess—
the dog she kept alive, too weak and sick
to lift his head. I listened to music
in my room, doors locked. To choose that abyss
downstairs over the lonely, hopeless bliss
of Paul Westerberg’s voice seemed sadistic:                     
she’d feed him with an eyedropper, he’d lick
her hand. We didn’t talk about that kiss
or any other. I don’t remember
how many days she begged his eyes open,
changed his bed, stroked the lumps like clustered figs
under his fur. What did it mean to her
to never share a loss? Where was I when
she picked the shovel up, began to dig?