Little White Lie 
Mother has sewn a white lie  
into the hem of my breast pocket,  
a finishing method for a voodoo doll boy  
folded narrowly. The white lie will grow  
in my pocket as an egg, my blood  
will be an incubator, my marrow  
will be fed to the bones of her dead son  
made in me, a little ivory lie scattering 
into the fledging feathers of a goose. 
The goose will merge out of my back  
giving me the appearance of having angel wings,  
the goose’s beak pecks my cartilage.  
This piece of cloth is sewn to prevent 
the unravelling of mother's fabric heart. 
Grant Tabard is an editorial assistant for Three Drops From A Cauldron and a reviewer. His new collection Rosary of Ghosts (Indigo Dreams) will be released soon.