Not I

The day they lined us up,
siblings 1,2,3, and interrogated
the vandalism of our father’s 
lunch box twinkies, one-by-one
we claimed innocence and 
no one cracked under the crackling
glare of the grownups accusing silence

Not I, I swore, and it was truth
that time.  In fact, the culprit
was a mouse and all the little
liars went free, hoping for
reward later.  Sadly, special treats
were expensive and reserved for
the man in the house who worked 
two jobs to pay the mortgage. 

Later, when we were lined up for
questioning about the nail polish artwork 
on the linoleum counter I told a bold
faced lie and let my younger sister
take the blame, like the devil and
without remorse for the two days
it took to decide I was not a liar
after all.  And so, I fractured like one
of Picasso’s weeping women at my
mother’s feet. She was fretting with
a rag and mineral spirits then, unimpressed,
with my cartoon convulsions of guilt, she
unceremoniously handed me the cloth
to finish the job without saying
a word.