THE LAST LIE
Now those memories come back to haunt me They haunt me like a curseI know I’ve lied before,
Is a dream a lie if it don't come true
Or is it something worse
Bruce Springsteen
tiny white ones, every day
exaggerations and self deprecations
to make me seem deeper and tougher,
simpler and weirder, more self
contained, less ordinary, less like you.
I started young, signed an application,
swore I was nine instead of eight
to play sandlot baseball before
my time. Now, I’ll keep quiet
when people think I’m only forty;
but lines are forming beneath
my eyes and my last girlfriend
married a guy half my age.
Once, I lied in a poem,
changed the name of a girl
so no one knew I was the last,
the oldest, guy on my block
to finally get laid. No, I never
got past Julia Jordan’s breasts,
not my finger, tongue or cock
even though she was beautiful
in the soft sweet way I always
dreamt about: deep ocean
blue eyes, summer freckles, silky
hair hanging down and brushing
her great ass. Yeah, I loved her
and I knew she wanted to do it
in my parents’ basement, the back
of her father’s station wagon,
in an Allentown barn visiting
her space cadet, Jesus freak sister.
But I was as slow and awkward
as a retard, worried and scared
I wouldn’t know what to do
and we never could find words
to say anything about any of it.
No, I lied a few years ago
for real. It mattered, broke
somebody’s heart and should
never be forgiven. I lied
to the girl I first made love to,
the woman I’ve loved longest,
the woman who talked
about breaking up her family
because we both believed
we belonged together. Finally.
We were walking down Houston
to see some movie and I said no
I wasn’t seeing anyone else.
I looked in her eyes, paid
for two tickets and sat
in the movie dark, slid
my hand under her skirt,
made sure she was wet.
And yeah, I kept lying
after I told her the truth
a day later as she screamed
and cried and cursed me
all the way from Virginia.
I apologized, tried to explain
she was still married, it could
take maybe years before
she could move to New York,
that Suzanne was just someone
to fuck in the meantime. I never
said I didn’t want to wait
around for her, that I didn’t
believe she would ever leave
her husband or I was already
too much in love with Suzanne.
But she knew and kept away.
We are back in touch now.
She’ll sneak off in her car,
use a phone card and call me
on birthdays and her voice
will linger for hours. We’ll meet
for dinner when she visits
her parents in Queens, hold
hands, talk about everything.
She tried not to look too happy
when I told her Suzanne married
her old boyfriend in September.
I nod my head when she says
she’s so wrapped up in her son
and the every day of life
that she forgets everything
she’s missing and I promise
myself I won’t lie anymore.
Not about something
like that. Not to her. Tony Gloeggler