The Inheritance

He pointed at the lamp, at the crack,

the lie arriving smooth in his mouth

like he'd been practicing in mirrors,

like I taught him back

when he was small enough to inherit

my way of twisting truth

into something that sounds like

someone else did it.

I know that cadence.

I know the bend in his voice.

I gave him that choice.

The dog wasn't even there.

The lamp was on the floor.

And he knew the score—

that lying travels,

that it passes down like genes,

that it becomes

what you do when the real thing

seems too heavy to hold.