The Truth

by Steve Klepetar

She told him the truth, that money

was the name of her aunt. He touched

her hair, they walked out in the rain.

She jingled her purse, which coughed

gold coins all over her hands.

He believed her cheeks for the light

they shed on his worn shoes.

He liked the seashell shape of her ears.

She told him that she sang an aria

woven from the tongues of wolves.

Soon they were ankle deep

and grasshoppers chanted in the grass

beyond the few remaining trees.

Otherwise the pond was silent: no frogs

ripping holes in the reeds, no leaping fish.

In that humming, humid evening he bent

her stolen name into a ring and fell

laughing into her blind and tongueless sea.

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