A Distant Homicide
Stories pour out like molasses,
slow and sweet and dark.
The truth it seems, is a slow thing,
shy and afraid, surer of judgment than grace.
always waiting for the inquisition,
easily frightened, wounded too often
by their honesty.
About this poem
We are a world of the wounded, I have come to believe. In my work, people tell me things. The whole truth, the whole story, is slow to come out as they decide whether or not I am trustworthy. I rarely pry, preferring for people to tell their stories the way they are most comfortable.
But one thing I have learned.
Too often; way way too often, our intimate sharings are used against us. We become afraid of the vulnerability of the truth. It’s a slow homicide, lives ruined by judgment of other wounded souls, their own truths conveniently locked away out of sight.
PS – the artwork is currently at Mass MoCA in North Adams, Mass. Silly me forgot to take down the artist’s name and the name of the work.