Your voice came out smooth

Your voice came out smooth

without a pause, without a doubt—

the dog did it. The lie was proof

of something I taught, though I meant

to teach you different things.

The porcelain is still warm on the tile,

still holding the shape of falling.

I'm seven again for a while,

my mother's lamp already breaking,

my own mouth making the same shape.

You point at him, sleeping

in the other room. I'm standing here

keeping faith with a past

I passed to you, reaping

what I sowed without sowing,

without knowing, without ever

saying the words out loud.

The dog doesn't know.

Neither do we.

And I'm thinking how a lie

can grow like a tree,

how easily the branch

becomes the seed.