I learned the word
Pentimento at 23,
eating chips & salsa
reading Lillian Hellman’s
layered tales
about real people in troubling times
and one which,
once the truth bled thru, I later learned,
was its own counterfeit on canvas
or,
false claim to proximity,
anyway,
attempt to type over a certain story,
not really hers, but perhaps
who knows,
to embellish her own heroism.
Too bad.
Upon reflection,
I still think her a great storyteller
anyway.
And while the famous borrowed tale
of Julia may be haunted
by scandal
I believe in the veracity
of Dashiell Hammett’s
drunken slaughter of a snapping turtle.
it’s bloody head-dangling trail
from the kitchen butcher block
back out the screen door
through the sweet grass
to his pond
down the hill
from his cottage.
The image behind this image
burns through today:
a girl in a chair
with crumbs on her shirt
book in hand,
rose colored stain
marks the yellowed page.
Early Morning Poems 