White Lies

I was always willing to swallow 
my mother’s little white lies;  
protection for the child,
hidden images of hurt.
I imagined them worm-like 
scented with her perfume
to make them palatable.

I accepted answers that didn’t always 
match the questions —
like worms, there were no feet
with claws to scratch on the way down;
understood her pain had to be muted, 
that she told only stories of good times.

She wanted me to believe;
I listened between breaths, under the words,
to what wasn’t being said when she looked away.
Her memories, glass shards, broken promises 
shadow-raced from one eye to the other. 

The secrets I choose to tell are not perfumed;
there are thorns on tendrils, small talons
that cling to the cusp of words.  
I allow, sometimes revel, enjoy the gasp                     

unclothed in my inability to suffer lies.
I have not followed her gentle deceits.
I have shared myself bloodied, sharply defined,

often cut wounds of painful memories
into those I have loved. Even when I have tried,

to soften the blow, the knife edge is well honed.

Vesuvius

His name was Mark 
small, thin, translucent white, 
so very white.

Limbs bare trees in winter, 
fragile covered in snow 
to give them weight.
Deep royal and aqua veins
traveled him like a bird’s eye view 
of Venetian canals 
on vintage souvenir postcards.
Faun-like face marred by an overbite, 
cabochon sapphire eyes 
ringed with heavy black lashes.

Nervous, easily provoked, a bullied child, 
tossed the contents of his fist sized stomach 
at least once each day
We called him Vesuvius.
Teacher, Vesuvius erupted again.
And in our less than seven years
we had developed a survival gene,
a powerful mechanism of ego, 
one which Mark had not yet found.

I think of him and I think of me.
Did I also taunt him, laugh at him,
make his life miserable?
I know I would pinch 
sleeping infants on their feet
to hear them cry 
so I could comfort them.
Is that what I did to Mark
and is that why I see him so clearly 
within the mirror of seven decades? 
Guilt outweighs what I wish were true.

His name was Mark
small, thin, translucent white
so very white.

the visit

the house is quiet
you’ve left—

no more misspoken words
nothing loud, accusatory,
no frustrations under the flesh
inflamed like festering boils
ready to break the surface
if rubbed the wrong way

the house is quiet
you’ve left—

we kissed goodbye, hugged hard,
more than once you said I love you,
our leavings like ritual prayers 
repeated for emphasis and truth
or love spelled backwards, upside down
held in the mirror of mother and son

Charlene Stegman Moskal is a Teaching Artist for the Las Vegas Poetry Promise Organization. She is published in anthologies, print and online magazines including: “TAB Journal”, “Calyx”, “Inkfish” and “Myslexia”. Her chapbooks are “One Bare Foot”, (Zeitgeist Press), “Leavings from My Table”, (Finishing Line Press),“Woman Who Dyes Her Hair” (Kelsay Books) and a full length poetry collection, “Running the Gamut”, (Zeitgeist Press).