KEIRA LYNN DODD

Truth

 

In the beginning truth was a rock.
It sat there, obvious--
black against a white background,
a word with only one meaning,
a one-noted song,
and if I didn't know it,
I was dumb, blind,
an object of mockery.
I remember trying to hold the truth
in my hand. It was sharp.
I didn't know how to handle it.
(I still have the scars.)
Once, I swallowed it.
It sank inside, sat in my gut.
I tried to hide it, even from myself.
It was heavy. I carried it around
like a dead fetus.
I pretended it wasn't there,
that it didn't exist.
Soon it was me who began to die.
I had to get it out of me.

It burst out of my chest,
cutting me open.
I was exposed, bleeding.
My heart was a lump of tissue
that only began to beat

when open to the air.

 

Now truth is a river.
I step into it tentatively,
testing the temperature,
wading in until I can no longer
touch the bottom.
Sometimes I stay on the surface,
swimming confidently--
upstream or down,
it doesn't much matter.
Sometimes I'm just treading water, floating nonchalantly,
enjoying its buoyancy.
At other times I dive down deep:
Holding my breath,
I feel around with my hands
and play with the mud on the bottom,
letting the seaweed
slip through my fingers.
I don't need to see anymore.
I don't even need to breathe.
I can just sink,
let the truth fill my lungs.
This isn't dying.
It's something more ambiguous.
I feel myself dissolve.
I can no longer tell where I end
and truth begins.