A BRIEF HISTORY OF LYING

by Joshua Marie Wilkinson

after Aaron Kunin

In the foreground, we
encounter a peculiar
music of keys, of laundry
being unfolded, of machines
building new machines
to show us how sadness
works in a loop. We
discover that the truth
is wired to rooms
our children continually
rename. We move through
them without moonlight
without any pencils
to weather out our findings.
Even our findings become
the city around us–bunkered up,
unstuck from the trees, fizzing
in the wires we think are missing.

‘At Evening,’ Vikram Seth

Let me now sleep, let me not think, let me
Not ache with inconsistent tenderness.
It was untenable delight; we are free–
Separate, equal–and if loverless,
Love consumes time which is more dear than love,
More unreplicable. With everything
Thus posited, the choice was clear enough
And daylight ratified our reckoning.

Now only movement marks the birds from the pines;
Now it’s dark; the blinded stars appear;
I am alone, you cannot read these lines
Who are with me when no one else is here,
Who are with me and cannot hear my voice
And take my hand and abrogate the choice.