January 14, 2004 Culture ¢ the other press ©

 

Poetry/Fiction/Essays/etc.

 

White Lie

You take the foil lump

offered to you by liver-spotted hands

and smile. You know its contents,

home-made lasagne, your favourite, unlike

that cafeteria mush, mass-produced

by some hair-netted hag and her motley crew

of students, stirring up a way to pay off their debts.

You guard your treasure carefully, aware of its value
in your college dormitory. Not trusting

your floor-mates, you place the silver package

on the sill outside your window, to keep it cool
and safe. You leave, locking the door behind you.

When you return to feast,

it is gone. You eye your roommate, suspiciously,
disappointed that she would eat

and not tell.

Gazing out the window

you hear a commotion down below

so you look and you see it—

your silver treasure chest, sparkling in the sun,
its jewels, its ornaments

being picked apart by seagulls and transported
to unknown destinations.

You glare at the pirates, then sigh,

resigning yourself to another cafeteria dinner.

The following weekend,

you return to the little stucco house
in East Vancouver, raving

about last week’s wonderful

lasagne. Grandma's eyes twinkle,
perfect dentures glisten,

as you tell her

that you just couldn't

get enough.

 

Barbara K. Adamski

 

 

 

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