Children Lie to Me

A couple of weeks ago, I posted about how Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson changed my thinking about lying. That idea has been rattling around in my head for some time trying to become a poem. I don't think this is the final draft, but it's getting close:

Children Lie to Me

Children lie to me
all the time
about their homework or the weekend
or what they really think of William Carlos Williams,
and I keep asking for more.

Lie to me,
but develop it.

Who was at the park? What did they want?
How is the squirrel symbolic of your deepest held desires,
and how does it reconcile itself with the greater progression
of your development as a literary being?

A good lie, after all,
is a germ of a story, just waiting
to be spread, smeared from hand to hand.
And children make such good carriers.

Lie to me,
but tell it strong.
Arm the lie with color and feeling.

Tell me about the dog,
how your mom threatens to get rid of him even though
you both know she loves him more than you do.
Tell me how his nails click-clacked on the laminate,
how he whined, his shiny eyes watering
as he realized how he had betrayed you.
Tell me about the low trill, half-growl, half-whimper
as you tugged your papers, bit by bit, from his jaws,
trails of spit smearing the blue pen,
hoping against hope that I'll believe your excuse.

Well, I don't.
But I liked your story.
Turn it in tomorrow.