in defense of myself & other liars

at all times i keep a pair of fingers 
crossed behind my back. a kind of precaution.
it's not that i try to lie
sometimes they just spill out of me.
i remember when was little 
i would lie about the school day,
telling mom there was a wondeful huge custome trunk
in the middle of the classroom. i told her
i dug in that trunk & found a dinosaur costume
to wear for the rest of the day.
really, i spent all day watching 
other children's hands. 
they hurled red rubber balls at the maple tree
& unfurled fruit by the foot from their lunches.
hands are so much like little insects. hands are
hard to pin down. i hated my own hands.
it is easy to blame the body 
but you have to believe me when i tell you
my fingers sometimes crossed themselves.
i would transported myself 
to a new body with thinner
& more dexterous hands.
i was a piano player in my heart, a key board 
summed right there from the mulch. 
the other children's voices leaked
through & turned to cardinals 
in my palms. they pecked until
my skin was raw. the thing about crossing fingers 
is once you start, they grow together. 
they whirl & knot like roots. 
there is no going back now.
i invent so much of myself 
in a dimension i show no one.
there, my hands will do 
whatever i want them to.
they know how to tie any knot & play
any insturment. they program computers 
& fix broken teeth. they sign 
legislation to protect me. they unwind 
days that fissured me. 
tuck hair behind ears. 
crease slice of paper. is a hand a hand
if it performs your desires?
is a lie a lie if it unfolds 
in your mouth? if it comes out 
bright pink & soft?