(in memoriam Elizabeth Jennings, 1926-2001)
A truth told twice or many times
does not undo the lie told once
if told that single time with a child’s
open face, the creamy hint of a sob
to disarm the sceptic, woo the ready made.
The henhouse sits as testament to foxy crimes,
slaughterhouse feathered with remnants of a dunce
who could not be other, clucking zed in wild’s
binary scheme, the soloist picking from the mob
of egg-fat zeroes the prize Sultana of its raid.
The mortal enemy of blind belief is sight
made clear as choir, each doubt politely reckoned
and groomed, allowanced from a common purse
of taxes levied on the living and the dead
to be repaid in need and certainty and measure.
The hedgehog passes by and sighs, the light
from bungalow windows alternating fret and beckon,
the fear that manifests as noise or worse,
as though each scrap of cheese or bread
were inventoried as household treasure.