The leaf behind the yellow aspen leaf is a lie.
The silver slingback in the corner of the closet
missing its tasteless mate is also a lie. Underneath
a heap of twigs is a new shrew's nest
built underneath the awning
of a lie.
The sonnet tucked into a book never read, the vial
of pills long expired, the measure of labor confirmed
by a time clock and photocopied with a signature line
for our approval all may be true,
but I doubt it.
The whole account is suspect, as if you turned a geode
inside out like a sock, to hide your grey basalt purpose
inside a bed of violet crystals.
Sara Clancy is a Philadelphia transplant to the Desert Southwest. Among other places, her poems have appeared in The Madison Review, Avatar Review, Verse Wisconsin, The Linnet's Wings, VAYAVYA and Crab Creek Review. She lives in Arizona with her husband, their dog and a 23 year old goldfish named Darryl.