Little tongues tell little lies,
often merely wishes
of what the truth could be.
Big tongues tell big lies,
what the truth should have been,
an alibi germinated by temptation.

Mothers tell lies about
the pain of needles
and flying reindeer.
Friends tell lies about
how you look in those jeans.
Lovers tell lies about
the height of your placement
in their priorities.
Chefs tell lies about
the secret ingredient.
The mentally ill tell lies about
the significance of their past.
The president tells lies about
the true cost of gasoline and human lives.

I told a lie, when I was six,
about my brother,
based on a common observation
about his summer complexion.
I claimed he was adopted
from an orphanage in Mexico.
I was swinging on a swing
with a girl I recently met,
the credulous daughter of my mother's friend.
I remember the rusty swing set,
the nearby drone of trucks on the highway,
the intoxicating power
of creating a reality
totally separate from the truth
in runaway detail,
pumping my legs back and forth,
inflating my confabulation.

It was the first sin I revealed in confession,
savoring the evil of my own imagination
with not quite perfect contrition.