Things Children Lie About

By Macklin Luke

Sometimes I am 8–

awake as we drive over

Arizona state lines.

Misremembering my birthday,

pretending to still be asleep

as my parents talk of freedom.

-

Sometimes I am 8–

toes in the gravel of my grandmother’s yard,

taking thorns out of my fingers,

feeling the harsh rug of the stairs,

smelling the permanent desert pine

and wet sand.

-

Sometimes I am 8–

burying lizards in the cat food,

sleepwalking to the patchy couch,

falling in the lake,

standing on the sink brim,

teetering, tipping.

Mostly, I am aging.

Allow me this reminiscence.

Allow me this grieving.

Allow me this returning.

Please, allow me this.