I keep trying to finish my Mini-Memoir of Resistance that I’ve been posting in parts here. I’m stuck on a big-change period, 1986 when my then-husband and I dug in on a protracted campaign to get the mayor of New Brunswick, NJ, to reopen a men’s shelter he’d declared dead. It involved serving dinner every night on a street corner as we organized the men & carried out a series of civil disobedience actions to keep the pressure on. (Did I say this already? These daily posts are beginning to run together in my head, mushed up with the ones I haven’t finished/posted yet.) I thought I’d wrap that up & post it tonight, but I fell down a research hole as I dug into online newspaper archives to retrieve coverage of our efforts. A lot happened that summer. At one point back then I typed a list of articles because I was beginning to lose track. There were over 60. I used to have all the clippings, but I’ve moved 10 times since then and have lost a lot of stuff.
So instead of #5 of my mini-memoir, here’s an old poem written in response to a prompt one night when I was very mad. 😃
Poem About a Lie
I sit across the table,
watch you slice veal
with great precision.
Watch lies fall out of your mouth
and mix with red wine sauce on your plate.
Your lies are cheaper than your dinner.
You work to refine them,
dressed as they are in fine linens,
fresh flowers,
violins in the background.
Served up by waiters in tuxes,
crisp white towel
draped across an arm.
Fine china.
Your lies bounce off the crystal,
make sharp chimes
as you smile and glance up
to see if I believe you.
A slight garlic odor
wafts across the table
on your last words.
You sip merlot,
watch me over the rim of your glass.
You smile again.
Flecks of oregano
are stuck in your teeth.
- 1998
