In the Bedroom Where We Lie

He lied to me today.

I let him think I believed him,
smiling, moving the pastel comforter
for him to lie beside me.  And he did;
climbed right underneath and lied again.

I really wasn’t talking to her, or anyone.
         I know honey.  I know.

I reached for the lamp, wanting the dark
to make the lie more true.  If I couldn’t
see his eyes, was it really hurting me?
His hand landed on my arm, moving
to find my palm. 

You believe me right?
         Of course I do.  Why would you lie to me?

I stared at the black air, squinting
to see the truth.  Trust is a funny thing
when you know you’ve lost it.  We lied,
tangled in the blankets together; both
wanting the other to say the real thing.

Behind my eyes were flashes of him,
laughing, running at me with a spider,
wild brown eyes that I loved the first
time I saw them.

Finally he sat up crying.  His fingers found
mine and he held on as if the truth was going
to hurt him.

I lied, I’m sorry.  I was talking to her,
to all of them.  That’s why they told you.
I’ll never lie again.

I held him, smiling and said,
         Thank you, I love you.
I felt his lungs release the guilt.
I love you too mommy.