If It Seems Too Good

To be true, an angel
with tattoos, graffiti
that peels off
in picaresque waves,
unselfish forgery, a silver
dragon gift, fresh
clichés, forgotten
equations, debtor’s
heaven, one red chair
left standing
is a lie.

Fact or Fiction

The details have begun
to fade—was it June
or July? New York or
Cleveland? Who were you 

opening for? Was a body
of water involved? I could sprinkle
these memory ashes
downstream into the river 

deceit. The truth: 

I haven’t forgotten even one
detail. Down to the pocket
in my dress, later chewed and torn
by an innocent Airedale. 

The truth? Do memories drown
when they’ve served their purpose?
Is two decades long enough?
What if they float?