If I tell a perfect lie,
It is still perfect.
There are so many perfect things.

The Three Sisters, for one,
Corn, beans, squash -- Perfect Things,
A Holy Trinity you can really sink your teeth into.

Yet, even as I write that, I remember
the hours of planting, the sweat of summer,
blistered fingers, sharp stalks,
and all of those lean, hungry months
we so quickly forget.

It's as if the telling hides worms in the ears
and softens the squash.
It's as if the telling pours perfection
onto the dust and watches it disappear.

My brother claims to dream the truth.
He knows the exact date and method of his death.
Dreams it, he says. Who knows?
It's a secret. Who knows?

I do know that things happen in our sleep.
Time climbs up on our bodies like a cat.
Time purrs on our chest and steals our souls
with soft, invisible, blissful sucking
that makes us look adorable to the people who love us.

Adorable in our sleep, we hear perfect lies
Cast in the soft glow of an opened door, a nightlight,
We are watched and we are loved.
There are so many perfect things.