Tell me something true about yourself,
he says,
as though we know each other well enough
for truth telling.
I don’t like onions, I reply in truth, especially
not raw ones.
He huffs, he puffs — not like that! he blows,
a real truth!
A better truth, he means, one that carries power
inside of it —
inside of me — a powerful knowledge he can press
against when angry.
I don’t like onions, I repeat myself; in truth,
all he deserves.
He throws up hands, exasperated, parlor game sunk
while I won’t play
nice.
He insists
on confessions, not just to pass the time.
If it’s bad
manners not to play, I’m happy to resign.