At eleven I learned to lie.

    Disobedience and its partner，

    deception， became my constant companions.

    How enormous then that first transgression，

    against Father's command， a sin damning as Adam's：

    walking to school alone.

    We all lied， mother explained，

    it was. . .necessario.

    How else to survive

    Father's rages，

    his sweeping interdicts

    and condemning opinions？

    Oh sweet allegiance of lies：

    siblings and mother bound

    together in a cozy tie！

    My brothers' lies

    were manly，

    obdurate， built to last.

    Mother's were infirm little things，

    infected from birth by her obstinate grace，

    fated to die as soon as they hit the air.

    But this lie， the lie about me， was sturdy，

    knit， as it was， from the fiber of maternal love

    and a wife's defiance.

    Go ahead； it's right.

    Walk alone. Grow up.

    Each assurance a coercion， each coercion a shame.

    The lie was a coat of mail

    I'd don each day， threading my arms

    through its leaden sleeves，

    pulling its weight over my head，

    steeling myself

    for my father's wrath.

    In it I was strong and getting stronger，

    but tired， always tired.

    Oh to rest， shuck the lie and confess！

    Father forgive me， I knew not what I did！

    At night I'd rehearse the lines

    and pray for his cleansing fury.

    In the morning I'd meet him in the hall，

    already crabby in his gray lab coat，

    barking his harsh observations

    about my robe （pink： ridiculous）

    about my face （vacant）

    about my voice （inaudible）。

    Mother， how did we produce such an insect！

    I was used to this.

    Exasperated， he would stuff his red frizz into a beret，

    hurl himself into his loden cape

    and bolt out the gate——too rushed for truths.

    Silenced again， I would resume my solitary mission，

    lugging my books， wearing my lie to school

    and back again， through the maze of city streets.

    One day the mist briefly lifted and I saw

    the winter sun pulsing silver and pale

    through a hole in the sky——a quiet disk

    hopeful as the moon.

    A face emerged， white whiskers smiling，

    familiar， professorial——an angel perhaps，

    or a friend of the family——

    here to guide me safely

    across the river to school.

    He took my bag and my arm，

    allaying my fears with talk

    calculated to soothe， flatter， amuse.

    Gentile， cosí gentile.

    Ever faithful， he met me at my gate

    morning after sweet morning.

    We chatted carelessly the whole way，

    intimate as lovers，

    never a snag

    or worry to hold us up——

    I， grateful and happy，

    he gently leading the way.

    My trust deepened daily with his purpose

    and burrowed

    in the snug darkness of short days

    where the new lie took root.

    From deep in the loam， the probing

    stem pushed to the surface.

    Meanwhile， the first lie grew light with practice.

    And my coat assumed

    the comfort of a uniform.

    His purpose， obscured from the start by fear，

    suppressed tenaciously

    by innocence——canny innocence——

    flared up in a question，

    betraying an ignorance

    both clear and obscene：

    "Little Girl， would you touch me——here？"

    Suddenly my hand， sweetly warming

    in his flannel pocket， was pushed

    to the hard， oozing center.

    My hand recoiled.

    But the ooze stuck.

    In that minute my childhood ended.

    I ran home as fast as my legs would carry me

    to hide my shame in the place

    where secrets were made and kept，

    willful little liar， disobedient

    sinner trying to find my way alone

    through fog， through lies.

    My life was filling up with secrets

    and deceit's secretions，

    loneliness and melancholy.

    I hugged my coat tight against my body

    so that the lies and I were one.