One Valentine's Day, the Indiana Era,
my father gifted his lie to my mother
a massive, hand made, frilly white box
shaped like the heart of this country
one hundred and fifty gourmet chocolates

a child can never tell the difference
between lies and not lies, only that
some things that hurt taste so much better
than other things that hurt--but it all
makes us cry.

years later i feel the weight of guilt
remembering how she hid the box under the bed
and the next one hundred and fifty nights
i begged that she would share a piece of choclate

and she always did.
always the one to take the first bite
from the fruit, the delicacy, of the prettiest lie.
but we all drink from the same well, don't we--
we all share the wealth in whatever form it might be.

but we never question the creator.

(rd)