if you tell yourself often enough, all of it can be true
from waist size to waste sizing up the spaces
open to spill into
and take over
until the next moments cannot be contained
in over-flowing graves
filled with secrets everyone knew
if you tell yourself often enough, all of it can be true
in between the silences after confessions
of horrors even God couldn’t see
under the black and white curtains of righteousness –
or hate
sometimes I can’t keep them straight
or separated into columns on lying ledgers
stained with Indian ink
on the fingers of all those who count copper pennies
kept in porcelain so the other piggies couldn’t see how
if you tell yourself often enough all of it can be true when
all of them get to press their hard noses against the soft cheek of Christ
whispering those truths told often enough
all of it can be yourself, too.
(c) r. l. elke
I keep typing and retyping this comment. It’s hard to properly convey how much this poem impacted me, layered, detailed, gutting, tender, crafted and wild, thoughtful and passionate.
I couldn’t pick just one set of lines
“until the next moments cannot be contained
in over-flowing graves
filled with secrets everyone knew”
and
“or separated into columns on lying ledgers
stained with Indian ink
on the fingers of tall those who count copper pennies
kept in porcelain so the other piggies couldn’t see how
if you tell yourself often enough all of it can be true when
all of them get to press their hard noses against the soft cheek of Christ
whispering those truths told often enough
all of it can be yourself, too.