Skip to main content

The Strongest Lie



 We have always believed the most dangerous lie
When they brought out the chicken,
Laid the egg in our hands...
When they read from the book of Fryers
The story of the sale and the feast;
The Mother Who Feeds Us 
With every part of her body and family,
We confess our unity.

When they say It Has Been Always Thus
Covered starving in other truths
Excavated by sharp words.
We held it steady and waited.
This will be our small lie, 
Our foundational myth of consumption,
Our taking from the Mother
Our stealing our lives.

We repeat, together, as we cradle the egg
Only the bravest can handle the Lie,
The most dangerous lie.
Truth is hidden. It is weak. It is written.
We are to keep it always so.
Between us. Unsaid. 
The Mother always hid it from the Lie,
The, good, wise, strong Lie
We have always believed.
We will always believe.
Thus, we eat.

Sharing with The Sunday Muse #175. There is no interpretive text this week, as scholars strongly disagree about whether words have any meaning left. I am tempted by the Gum School, which theorizes that anything handled by the mouth loses savor with use. 

-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. indybevAugust 28, 2021 at 9:53 AM

    An enigmatic and engaging write.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Carrie Van HornAugust 28, 2021 at 10:09 AM

    A hard truth runs through your wise poem Chrissa! it is crazy what we accept in life as truth, and then hold it close. Wishing you a safe and wonderful weekend my friend.

    ReplyDelete
  3. FireblossomAugust 28, 2021 at 5:09 PM

    Bawk!

    ReplyDelete
  4. Sumana RoyAugust 28, 2021 at 9:09 PM

    Weak truth & strong lie....this is this world. Beautifully put.

    ReplyDelete
  5. robkistnerAugust 28, 2021 at 11:47 PM

    Oh my, this peels a number of layers from the artichoke, and bares a rich core.

    ReplyDelete
  6. SunitaAugust 29, 2021 at 8:44 AM

    This is a powerful piece, Chrissa. Every layer is so profound and makes one to introspect the different shades in life. Sort of a reality check. Just brilliant!

    ReplyDelete
  7. TruedessaAugust 29, 2021 at 9:26 AM

    If we are fed enough lies we believe it, we need to spit out the spoils if we are to find truth.

    ReplyDelete
  8. HelenAugust 29, 2021 at 9:31 AM

    Reading your poem feels like I have traveled to another time, place, world, galaxy.
    [ Only the bravest can handle the Lie ]

    ReplyDelete
  9. Gillena CoxAugust 29, 2021 at 2:30 PM

    Ths truth is we must eat. We all must eat
    Thanks for dropping by my blig today Chrissa

    Much❤love

    ReplyDelete
  10. JimAugust 29, 2021 at 5:52 PM

    Sounds like a fraternity/sorority/lodge initiation of getting the secret word. Feed you to the lions if you divulge and lose your entrance if you forget it.
    ..

    ReplyDelete
  11. qbitAugust 29, 2021 at 6:49 PM

    Thought provoking from the very first lines! And loving the Gum school... Going to have to chew on that a bit. Or, no, well, you know!

    ReplyDelete
  12. Susie ClevengerAugust 30, 2021 at 1:46 PM

    You have said so much in this poem. It appears the lie gets more mileage, more worship than truth.

    ReplyDelete
  13. Marion HortonAugust 31, 2021 at 12:00 AM

    Scary to think how lies become 'fact.' Forceful and compelling poem and message.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Flagrant

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #217. Come be part of the conflagration. :)  Oh, they called the mob to celebrate But only the fire heard They called the mass to congregate But only the dry grass bowed A conflagration Called to prayer Hungry for light Hungry for air Oh, they called the mob celebrate Wearing flames in their hair They called the mass to congregate Faceless in the burning air.  Greetings and salutations. I'm not sure what to say--we're not celebrating the 4th this year (not that I'm prepared to cede one holiday to the authoritarian idiots in charge of our state, but our grass is still dry from the heat and we have a dog terrified of fireworks...so we're celebrating by bunkering down and watching Howling 2  at the gleefully deranged suggestion of my sibling) and otherwise I've turned our dead corn plants into the basis for this year's Camp NaNo project...it's turning into a weird year, the kind of year where I'm reading more horror than norma...
7 comments
Read more

To Blue Fields Far Below

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #228 , The Fashionable Twenties.  A sycamore fairy sits crosslegged in the road Dragons swim toward smooth hills above the storms Vines embrace the telephone poles  Someone washed the blue skies and she knows  It's time to dare the salty foam It's time to wade through the eternal fields' folds And gather golden apples for home.  Hoping this finds you with space to daydream and a good book in which to wander. Working on turning last week's prompt into a longer piece, as I found myself intrigued by the idea of tea in the garden as combat. Social situations are not my forte. As it's still Spider September, there will be a chihuahua-sized jumping spider that is none too happy about anything but hunting squirrels (that's for you, Mom).  -- Chrissa
6 comments
Read more

Phalanxes

Phalanxes of plastic ducks: wizards, barbarians-- the occasional detective-- swirl in the giant conundrum. Plastic dolls (fashion dolls?), no judgement on brand or aisle or hair, especially now, hear the canard-verse via pathways laid down in heat, in formless transformations. They know the wars. They know the strategies. They know the tidal energies. Or so Mandy says, holding a damp doll by the hair, dripping on the carpet, sleepy as an oracle  fresh from a hot spring [or a bath] prophesying plastic. It's been a week since The Sunday Muse. And I'm working on the Indie Summer Read/Writeathon (currently reading Rocket Science  and enjoying the drama) and working on other projects...but I find that I'm missing my Sunday poetry. :)  -- Chrissa
Post a Comment
Read more