Truths

Cadence Chung (she/they)

I’ve got one of those colds that sneaks in

like a text to an ex-lover, and my lungs

are full of salt. On Marion Street, there’s

an old building I’d never noticed, faux

columns painted blue and white.

There is no religion greater than the Truth,

it proclaims. I remember our church play —

Pontius Pilate asking what Truth was —

but he was played by someone’s old uncle

and really it had no philosophical weight.

I used to not like to write about the truth,

preferring insipid fantasy where people denounced

small talk and boys had auburn hair

and girls were strawberry-scented accessories.

Why bother about the real world? I asked.

But now my past escapism has turned

into an incessant thirst for the click of brogue

on pavement, the taste of girl

in mouth, decidedly non-strawberry. I am

a changed woman. I drink Metro Top 50 Wines

and I’m friends with people who write poetry.

My father, on many a night, drank vodka

mixed with cordial. I remember

the red-shimmer powder-enticement of it.

Last weekend I bought a twenty-dollar cocktail.

He’s never felt so far.